


Destiel Drabbles for Promptober

by TheTwistedWillow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoption, Airplanes, Alien Castiel, Alien/Human Relationships, Aliens, Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Scientists, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Space, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Assisted Suicide, Awkward Crush, Bad Parent John Winchester, Bartender Dean, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Bullied Castiel, Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain Castiel, Caretaker Castiel, Caretaker Dean, Caretaker Sam, Castiel (Supernatural) Has a Cat, Castiel (Supernatural) and Cats, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbors, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Roommates, Castiel and Dean in a Barn, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time, Castiel/Dean Winchester Wing Kink, Closeted Dean, Costume Kink, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crush at First Sight, Crushes, Cursed Castiel, Cursed Dean, Cursed Jack, Curses, Dead Castiel, Dean Hallucinates, Dean Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Dean Winchester is Protective of Castiel, Dean has a Fear of Flying, Destiel - Freeform, Djinni & Genies, Djinnverse (Supernatural), Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Dragon Castiel, Dragons, Drunk Dean, Drunk Dialing, Eccentric Castiel, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Everyone Is Gay, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Florist Castiel, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Full Shift Werewolves, Future Fic, Gardener Castiel, Grieving Dean, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Halloween, Hallucination Castiel, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Heteronormativity, High School Student Castiel, High School Student Dean, Hindu Mythology - Freeform, Horses, House Hunting, Human Castiel, Humor, Hunting, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Introvert Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, LARPing, Lace Panties, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Magic, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Married Life, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medieval, Memory Loss, Merman Castiel, Merpeople, Merperson Castiel, Minor Character Death, Misunderstood Dean, Mutual Pining, Mythology - Freeform, Neighbors, New Kid Castiel, Non-Con/Rape Outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Nudity, Officer Castiel, Omega Castiel, Omega Castiel/Alpha Dean Winchester, One Night Stands, Outer Space, POV Dean Winchester, Panties, Pilot Castiel, Pining, Pink Panties, Pirate Dean, Pizza Man Castiel, Poison, Poisoning, Possessive Castiel, Possessive Dean Winchester, Post 12x23, Priest Castiel, Prisoner Dean, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Torture, References to Depression, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romantic Soulmates, Roommates, Sam Is So Done, Sam Ships It, Savior Castiel, Scent Kink, Science Fiction, Scientist Castiel, Secret Crush, Semi Public Sex, Sex in a Barn, Sexual Identity, Shapeshifter Castiel, Sharing a Bed, Sick Dean Winchester, Slow Dancing, Soulmates, Spaceships, Spells & Enchantments, Spontaneous Heat, Stranger Sex, Strangers to Lovers, Stressed Dean, Suicide, Tattoo Artist Dean, Tattooed Dean, Temporary Amnesia, Tender Sex, The Pizza Man, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Top Dean, Torture, Tortured Dean Winchester, True Mates, Underwater, Violence, Voyeur Dean, Were-Creatures, Werewolf Turning, Werewolves, Wing Kink, Witchcraft, Wrong number, art gallery, deaging, fairytale curses, realtor castiel, scents and smells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-22 10:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 61,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12479304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTwistedWillow/pseuds/TheTwistedWillow
Summary: Promptober was a 31-day Fic Prompt Event hosted by the FB group Destiel NaNoWriMo.Each day I wrote a drabble of 500-2000 words based on a single word.PLEASE read the summaries on EACH chapter for ratings, any triggers, etc. MOST of the stories are rated Teen+ but a few are Mature or Explicit for sexual content, violence, etc.Each CHAPTER in this story is a DIFFERENT story.They are NOT connected in any way.





	1. Midnight Dew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is from the point-of-view of a shifting werewolf as he hunts and evades being hunted during a full moon.
> 
> Promptober word of the day is SWIFT  
> Rating: Teen+
> 
> WARNING: mild violence as the wolf hunting and killing a deer. It's not THAT detailed but if you feel it would bother you this is fair warning.

Doing this naked, in the woods, is easiest. Clothes don't get torn to shreds and there's something arousing about  _the change_  when he's free to be bare.

The painful pop of joints rearranging is almost a sweet, euphoric release, when the animal that is human is shed and the person that is wolf emerges. Teeth and nail lengthen, sharp and biting like razor. The hair of head, chest, leg and groin spread across the agile and able body, transforming into snow white with sweeps of variegated gray.

The lower jaw pops forward, mouth and nose coming together to form snout. Bones reorganize themselves until the body cannot sustain the weight to balance on two hind legs, but instead on all fours as hands form paws and alight on the soft ground.

Tailbone elongates as the thick hair continues to spread and ears stand perky and proud atop the head instead of hiding on the sides. Muscle and fat fill out, strengthening the new, lithe body that is made for crouching, pouncing and running.

The pain is gone, leaving only a pleasant thrum that shivers under the weight of dense, silken fur. Four paws lightly prance soundlessly, coating the pads with a thin sheen of cool mud.

Eyesight is improved in some ways, hindered in others. But the sounds and the smells --oh, the smells-- are heightened to a divine revelation. Nose to the air, gently bobbing with each sniff: dead leaves, moist mud, acrid skunk, copper tang of blood, wood-burning smoke, leather, gunpowder…

Ears rotate forward, body tensely frozen. A few more sniffs. Definitely human and definitely close. Ears slowly rotate, one after the other, trying to pick up the sound of clothing or shoes or even the metal clank of weapons. East… no southeast.

The wolf turns and runs away from the clearing and toward the trees, the moon high in the inky sky to guide him swiftly between wide, old trees and fallen branches, across dew slick moss and rotted, fallen leaves.

The exertion makes the wolf pant, chest tight from the power of running, dodging, leaping until his tongue lolls out to the side and his lips bare teeth into what one might call a grin. Underneath his white-and-gray coat oils are secreted and release his own unique scent upon the air.

He stops, suddenly veering right toward the east. He can’t get too far. The moon is still hung high but he does not want to be too far away when he returns to human form, naked and cold in the October dawn when he’s lost his pelt and is once again pink and mostly hairless.

The sense of being watched drives him to run faster, like a game, paws slapping the earth and jarring his bones. He will definitely be sore in the morrow but he can’t focus on that. Because now it is time to hunt.

He slows and crouches, slinking on belly near the edge of a new clearing, tasting the air with his nostrils. His deep panting slows to small huffs and he licks the frothy spit from his lips and jowls. There is a creature nearby. He is still learning but he thinks maybe deer. Deer he can do.

Stomach rolls in anticipation for the bite, for the rich blood, for the beating heart to cease its drumming. It really is all about the heart. Even now he can hear it, a steady rhythm that tells him his prey is not aware of the danger lurking so very close to its flank.

He creeps further, green eyes searching but he has to use scent. There, to his left. He slowly rises and walks around the trees until he is positioned behind the other animal. The deer lifts her head, her heart picking up pace. She smells him, she knows that he is here.

He unsheathes his claws and puts as much weight into his hind legs as he can, pushing and propelling himself in the air toward her, claws piercing through skin. She had shifted her body before his attack, his mouth in the optimal position to snap around her jugular and bring her down, giving her a merciful, swift death.

By the time he is finished and had his fill, he lifts his blood-soaked mouth and sniffs at the air. The scent of blood makes it difficult to comb through the other smells around him but there is no mistaking the smell of human. A single male, he knows. He senses another, not human, but not through scent. This one he senses through another means and this creature, an angel, is close. Always close.

The wolf cleans his snout as best as he can but he knows it is stained pink. The color should disappear when his fur does but the cloying smell lingers and dulls his ability to properly scent the human and his whereabouts.

The round, bright moon is dropping toward the horizon. He must head back. Leaving the carcass behind for scavengers the wolf turns and begins moving southeast, picking his way carefully, belly full. The rush of the run, the joy of the kill, has left him sated and heavy.

He makes his way toward the human, his next target.

It does not take long, maybe half-an-hour or an hour. Time moves differently in this form, more sluggishly. He breaks through the clearing where a tall man, long brown hair, leans against the black, metal body of his transportation.

His broad chin is lifted heavenward, hazel eyes searching the sky. The man is not aware of the wolf who has him in his sights. He is trustful, open, foolish. He has let his defenses down and the wolf will remind him why that is not a good idea.

Rounding the vehicle he crouches, ready to pounce for one last wolfy pleasure before he changes back until the next full moon. He presses his ears down but he can still hear the breath of the man, especially when he takes a deep, long, satisfying one.

He cannot wait to hear the cadence of this human’s heartbeat race when he lunges…

“Dean!” a sharp voice thunders behind the wolf.

The human startles and pushes away from the car to face the green-eyed wolf. He lifts his gun, his body tense, just as the wolf whimpers and pushes up on forelegs to settle on his haunches, caught before he could act.

“Damn it, Dean," the human says. "How many times do I have to tell you to not sneak up on me when you're like this? I could’ve shot you!”

The wolf eyes the tranquilizer gun resting against the human’s thigh now and looks back up. He barks once and then begins panting, relaxed and very tired from his adventurous night.

A hand comes to gently rest upon his head and he looks up at the creature who has walked up behind him to stand at his side. He bumps his head into the angel’s hand, nudging him for a scratch behind the ears.

The angel squats down and complies, his deft fingers weaving into fur, using the blunt end of fingertips to rub at the itching wolf skin beneath.

“Did you have a good run?” the angel’s voice rumbles near to his canine ear.

His tail swishes and thumps on the ground, his mouth opening into a wolfy smile.

The angel looks to the human. “It's almost time. He got a deer. No humans were hurt.”

The human frowns and opens the trunk, putting his weapon away and taking out a stack of clothes. “No, he just wanted a chance to jump me.”

The wolf tilts his head, as does the angel. “He was only going to scare you for fun. He would not harm you,” the angel explains.

The wolf barks in agreement, tail swishing faster. He gets up and nudges the human’s thigh with a wet nose. He'd die for this human before he'd dare sink his teeth in him.

“Yeah, well, doesn't mean I enjoy it. He'd get tranqued and then morph and I'd have to dress his naked, passed out body.”

The angel smiles and pats his thigh where he still rests on his haunches, beckoning Dean to come to him.

He goes to the angel willingly, happily, trailing a tongue up the angel’s stubble-rough cheek again and again until a chuckles rolls out from his lips.

“I love you, too, Dean.” The angel buries his face into his furry neck and inhales, pulling back to plant a kiss on top of his muzzle.

The angel rises and the three different creatures look over to the moon, waiting for the last of her milky rays to dissipate and take her magic with her, pulling away the wolf and transforming Dean back into his main form.

Once he is human and dressed, Dean tiredly slides into the backseat of his beloved Baby and into Cas’ waiting arms, closing his eyes and resting his head against the angel's solid chest.

Just as he trusted them during his change to ensure he did not take a human heart, he entrusts Sam to drive them home and for Cas to watch over him as he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda (okay, a lot) in love with this 'verse, where Dean becomes a werewolf at some point, but neither his brother nor love can kill him. Instead they watch over him to keep him away from humans but give him the freedom to hunt an overpopulated animal species.
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	2. A House Divided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys are back from a hunt but something has come between Cas and Dean, causing what may be irreparable damage.
> 
> Promptober word is: DIVIDED  
> Rated: Teen+

Dean throws his duffel down onto the bunker's Library room table roughly, something metal worryingly clanking around.

Sam looks up from his seat where he's reading. “Uh, better not have some grenades in your bag that could detonate, dude,” Sam jokes but it falls flat.

Because Dean is apparently not in the mood.

“Seriously, Sam? You think I just carry around grenades and shit that can blow?”

Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Just a joke. Forget it.”

Dean zips open his bag, mumbling and rummaging around. He pulls out a bottle of hairspray and lets it clatter to the table, followed by a huge ring of old keys he pilfered on a hunt because they, and Sam quotes, ‘look wicked cool’ and could possibly open something ‘epic’.

The last thing Dean pulls out is an empty, metal ammo box he had pulled from the trunk and told Sam he needed to refill.

Sam goes back to his book while Dean hangs the keys across the room as the sound of another set of footsteps gets closer to the Library. Sam looks up to Dean to see him scowl and stiffen at the impending intrusion.

Cas steps in, eyes narrowed at Dean, lips pursed in contempt. He nods once at Sam, so Sam nods back, watching him cut through the room and leave without so much as a word to his brother.

Dean lets out a loud breath of air and rolls his eyes. Now Sam knows this isn't just one of Dean’s post-hunt blues that can make him moody and exhausted. These two are fighting which, thankfully, doesn't happen often and nothing serious beyond a little bickering. The silent treatment means this is serious business but he's having a hard time figuring out what happened and when.

Sam wants to help or be there for his brother but he has to be delicate about this or Dean will just run off.   
  
“So…” he starts.

“Nuh-uh. Not doin’ this.” Dean zips up his bag and pulls it onto his arm and over his shoulder.

“Wha-a-at?” Sam asks innocently, eyes wide in mock surprise.

“This. That thing where you wanna get in here,” Dean jabs at his temple three times, “so you can get your ‘  _feels_ ’ freak on.”

Sam shifts in his seat and closes his book, maintaining eye contact. “Come on, Dean, you know I'm gonna ask when you act this way. And then Cas walks in and glares at you like you killed his cat!”

Dean points a finger at Sam. “Don't give him ideas. We don't need a feline stinkin’ up the place.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Actually, that  _is_  a great idea,” Sam says sarcastically, “because I just saw a Free Kittens ad on--”

“Not. Kidding. All the dust that collects in here is bad enough for my allergies. I don’t need to contend with fur and cat litter.”

Sam deflates, realizing he just let Dean take him down a rabbit trail to avoid the issue at hand. “Can you just tell me what's wrong? Are you two gonna be okay or overcome whatever the hell it is you’re upset about?”

“Why don't you ask him?” Dean bites out. “It's his own fault for flappin’ his gums.” Dean stalks out in the opposite direction that Cas went in.

Sam sighs and mutters, “It’s like raising teenagers.” He goes out to the living quarters to find Cas and see if the former-angel will open up to him so that Sam can talk sense into them both. He finds Cas on his bed watching TV.

Cas automatically grabs the remote and turns the little old television off, getting off the bed to replace the remote to the top of Sam’s dresser. “I'll get out of your--”

“Uh, actually, stay a minute?” Sam leans against the doorjamb, folding his arms. “So Dean is being a real joy right now.”

“I sense sarcasm,” Cas says, folding his own arms and widening his stance defensively where he stands before Sam.

“You guys are kinda freaking me out. You're either inseparable or there's a little bit of snappy arguing that you guys quickly smooth over. I haven't seen Dean like this in... a really long time. Is everything okay?”

Cas’ expression falters, his eyes dropping to the floor, and he shifts on his feet. “I hope so.”

He looks so sad that Sam fears the worst, that they've really gone to a place they'll never recover from. Sam pushes away from the door and takes a step closer. “Cas, what is it? What happened?”

Cas looks forlorn as he backs up to sit on the edge of the bed. “I didn't know my opinion would upset Dean so personally.”

Sam takes a few steps closer, almost afraid to hear what Cas is going to say when tear-filled blues look up at him.

“All I said was that I cannot stand behind the Royals because it would be better to choose an advantageous team, with many wins and higher statistics, rather than be a fan of a team based solely on geographical location.”

At first Sam is speechless and then he's confused. “Are you kidding me right now?” Sam says dryly.   
  
Cas’ stricken face hardens. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”   
  
Sam looks over his face and is having a hard time believing Cas would lie to him or be this good of an actor. He tries the sympathy approach. “You really think Dean is going to, I dunno, break things off with you over a stupid baseball team?”

“Hey, it's not a stupid team,” Dean says behind Sam. He turns around quickly to find Dean standing in the doorway that he had vacated only a moment ago.   
  
Sam looks between the two men having a glare-off. “You guys really need to stow your crap and get over yourselves. Is this really why you're fighting?"   
  
“Take it back, Cas,” Dean grits out.   
  
“No, never. Your baseball team sucks.”   
  
“They won the World Series two years ago!” Dean bellows.   
  
“Yes, and there are thirty years between championship titles. Within that thirty years they performed abysmally for much of the time.”   
  
Sam watches the back-and-forth before yelling, “Stop it! You two are being so fucking ridiculous right now.”   
  
“Honestly, Sam, I’m done. I’ve put up with so much shit from Cas over the years. Call it the last straw or whatever, but I’m done. We obviously have nothing in common, not anymore.”   
  
“I agree,” Cas says, standing up from the bed. “Perhaps it is time I leave.”   
  
“Yeah, well, good riddance.”   
  
“Wait, guys, stop. It’s just baseball. Are you seriously going to let something like this come between you? You’ve literally fought your way through hell, purgatory and even heaven together. To go separate ways because of a-- a difference of opinion over a sport is juvenile at best.”   
  
Cas stands toe-to-toe with Dean, who happens to be blocking the doorway. Both of them ignore Sam. “Move out of my way, Dean.”   
  
“Make me," Dean says bitingly, "Cas.”   
  
Cas shoves Dean hard enough to knock him off balance and out of the doorway. Dean catches himself and angrily shoves Cas back. Sam takes three huge strides over to where they’re standing in the middle of the hall to try and put himself in the middle of them. But both of them are standing face-to-face, clutching each other’s shirts, eyes narrowed.   
  
“Cas?” Dean practically growls. “Maybe we should be nice and make up for Sammy.”   
  
Without looking over Cas says, "I think you're right," and pulls Dean in, crashing their lips together while Sam stares, gaping, and wondering what the hell is going on.   
  
Dean pulls away and looks over at Sam, breaking out into a grin. “You-- you,” he wheezes, “should see your face.”

Sam looks to Cas to find the angel smiling magnificently up at his brother. “You were right, Dean, that was fun. And too easy.”   
  
“You-- you fucking jerks," Sam sputters. "This is just great!” Sam throws his hands up in the air and gives Dean his best disapproving bitchface. “It’s bad enough when you try crap on your own but now you gotta drag Cas into it?” Sam looks at Cas. “He’s a bad influence on you, you do realize that.”

Cas turns that smile on Dean. “Yeah. I know.” He pulls Dean in more gently this time, kissing him chastely.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and says, "It wasn't even that great of a prank, guys. Weak, really weak," before he storms off down the hall.   
  
Sam can hear Dean's voice echo along the corridor, “I guess we do have an unfair advantage on him between the two of us.”  
  
“And you do realize he will retaliate, Dean.”  
  
"We'd so win anyway. He can bring it--"  
  
Their voices continue to fade as Sam gets further away.   
  
He grins wickedly as he begins hatching a plan for serious payback against them both. If they think they have the upper hand they are sorely mistaken. It may be time to put a call in to an old friend, a god of trickery: Gabriel. Brothers against brothers. Let the prank war begin...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These little writing exercises are so fun and really get the creative juices flowing. I do not plan to continue this story so if it inspires you, you have permission to use this short story as a prompt. Please contact me with a link to your work if you choose to do so because I'd love to read it!
> 
> (That permission does not extend to my other work unless explicitly said otherwise, thank you.)
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~
> 
> PS. No offense to Royals fans lol. I'm in KC and I know how loyal fans can be to the boys in royal blue. ;-)


	3. At the Root of It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can't figure out where he is or how he got there. All he knows is Castiel is making him dinner and sporting a shiny wedding band.
> 
> READ TAGS: Warning for suicide. See end of notes for more thorough details.
> 
> Promptober word is: POISON.  
> Rated: Explicit

Dean reaches for the gun that should be tucked into his waistband at his lower back, but when he lifts up his jacket he finds it isn’t there. “Shit,” he whispers to himself, carefully slinking along the wall of a long hallway. There’s nothing on the walls, the space separated only by an occasional closed door.    
  
He can see that the hallway opens up to a living room but he isn’t familiar with this house or why he’s here. Maybe he was knocked unconscious and forgot what case they’re on. Which means someone took his weapons off of him and now he’s defenseless in an unfamiliar building.    
  
There’s movement out in the living room, someone walking past a love seat but the light behind them blinds Dean from getting a good look at them. He carefully draws closer, his footsteps sure and silent. A loud laugh from the person startles in him the quiet, especially when he realizes who is laughing.   
  
That laugh spurs him to walk faster and peek out. Cas’ back is to him but there’s no mistaking his build and his dark hair. Dean steps out into the room behind him.    
  
“Well, whenever you’re ready just let us know and we’ll come out,” Cas is saying and he turns slightly, catching Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean can see that he’s talking into a cordless house phone and the smile that graces Cas’ face makes Dean instantly relax.   
  
Okay, so they must be on a case and this is where they’re staying or something. Dean looks around, trying to figure out why he can’t remember arriving here or what the case is about. He looks out a window to a big backyard and then walks over to a fireplace in the corner of the room noticing there’s nothing personal anywhere, not even a framed photo. He walks back to the middle of the living room, turning in a circle.   
  
“Dean, you’re awake,” Cas says once he’s off the phone. He sets the phone back into it’s cradle, on an end table next to a dark grey couch. When Dean completes his turn around the room he about jumps out of his skin to see Cas in his space and even more startled when Cas grabs his waist and leans in to kiss his cheek.   
  
He has no time to react because Cas pulls away and walks off. “Cas? What is going on here?” Dean asks slowly, thoroughly freaking out inside, following him into a kitchen that is slightly reminiscent of the bunker’s kitchen, like someone picked it up and placed it here, while only changing a few small things that might not be noticeable to anyone but Dean.   
  
The faucet runs and Cas busies himself washing his hands. Without looking up he says, “I’m starting dinner,” like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Dean looks over Cas' navy blue sweater and jeans, wondering where his coat is and why he looks so friggin' normal.   
  
“No, I mean, where are we and why are you-- why did you..?” Dean touches his cheek where the ghost of a kiss still tingles and groans in frustration. “Something isn’t right here.”   
  
“Are you feeling okay?” Cas asks as he dries his hands and it reminds Dean instantly of that other guy with the weird name, in the Bizarro World. Mona? Mario? Something with an ‘M’.    
  
“Actually, I feel…” Dean looks down at himself. He’s dressed in his usual clothes and his stomach rumbles with hunger. He pats himself over and he can feel everything, every sensation. He feels perfectly normal. “... fine.”   
  
Cas looks at him with concern and if that isn’t weird. “If you say so, but you’ll let me know if you don’t feel well? We don’t have to go tonight if you’re not up to it.”   
  
“That almost sounds like you want a cop out,” Dean jokes before he can stop himself. Before he remembers he’s a stranger here, he’s sure of it. He waits for the familiar ‘head tilt of confusion’ but Cas laughs heartily, further making Dean suspicious.   
  
“You know me too well. That’s partly why I’m cooking before we go. First, they never have good food at corporate get-togethers. And if we just so happen to decide to stay here, well, we won’t starve to death.” Cas opens up a cupboard, a wry smile on his lips that Dean hasn’t ever seen before.   
  
And yet Dean finds himself being pulled into this believable scenario, of a Cas who is happy and unburdened. Dean leans on his folded arms on the counter and watches Cas reach up for a can of some shit he can’t make out. And that is when Dean sees it.   
  
His heart catches in his throat and he straightens up. The hungry feeling in his stomach turns sour and heavy, making him feel sick. “Cas? What’s on your hand?”   
  
Cas instantly stops looking in the cupboard and holds his hands up in front of his face, flipping them backward and forward. “I don’t see anything.”  
  
“The ring, dude," Dean snaps, the same jealousy he had when he came upon Emanuel and Daphne flares up. "You’re married?”   
  
Turning back around, Cas resumes his search, moving to another cupboard when he doesn't find what he's looking for in the first one. “That old joke stopped being funny ages ago.”    
  
“Ages? How long ago?” The sour churning of his stomach grows stronger, especially when he holds up his own hands and sees a matching band on his ring finger.    
  
Cas rolls his eyes. “Seriously? Dean, I’m not playing along with this. You know how long.”    
  
“Wait, are we undercover?” Dean looks around again, taking stock of the very cozy and domestic surroundings. But it doesn't make sense why an imitation bunker kitchen would be here if they rented a house for a case.    
  
Cas stops and turns to watch him quietly for a moment. “Why don’t you go lay back down? You must be sleep-walking or something.” Cas squints at him, eyes narrowed, and it’s finally something familiar enough that Dean thinks he’s found a crack in whatever game Cas is playing at.    
  
Dean decides to go along with it and leaves the kitchen, walking back out to the living room and down the hallway to the room he originally woke up in to see if he can snoop and figure out why he and Cas are here, if that even is Cas.    
  
The bed is made now, even though he swears he didn’t make it, and Cas hasn’t been out of his sight to do it either. If that isn't disconcerting then he doesn't know what else could possibly shock him. He starts opening drawers and all he finds are clothes. He slides open a closet door to find more clothes, boots and shoes, and up high on a shelf are a couple of boxes and albums.   
  
Dean easily reaches the albums and pulls them down, cracking the top one open. He flips through the pages slowly and then faster as he grows more confused. “What the actual fuck is this?”  One after the other are pictures of him and Cas at a wedding. Apparently theirs but he doesn't remember any of it.   
  
“Okay, think, Dean. What were you doing before you woke up here?” he mutters to himself, slamming the album shut. But it’s like a mental wall is literally blocking him from grasping at any clue to what is going on with him.   
  
He tosses both albums back up on the closet shelf and hears a crash outside the room.    
  
“Cas?” he yells as he runs down the hall, fear tripping up his heart. “Cas, are you okay?”   
  
He stumbles into the kitchen as one Cas goes flying across the room and into a wall, slumping down unconscious. Dean turns wide eyes to another Cas who looks blessedly like himself, trench coat and all.   
  
“What… is going... on?” Dean asks breathlessly as Cas, his Cas, opens up the cabinet under the sink and pulls out a bunch of chemicals, squinting at labels.   
  
“We don’t have time. You need to eat this,” Cas says, taking a bowl and filling it with the pasta the other Cas must have cooked up while Dean was in the other room. He sprinkles a bunch of poisonous shit over it.    
  
“I need to eat? That? Are you kidding me right now?" Dean yells. "I’m in the fucking Twilight Zone. And there are two of you. How do I know who to trust?”   
  
Blue eyes gaze intently at him over the proffered bowl and he knows this is the real deal. “Trust   _me_. You need to wake up and this is the only way unless you prefer I stab you, which I do not wish to do. Those are your choices. You won’t wake up by any other means.”   
  
“Djinn?”   
  
Worried eyes implore him, gesturing with the bowl for Dean to take it. “Yes, now hurry up.”   
  
Dean looks at the bowl in disgust. It smells like a Lysol factory exploded in the room. “I could think of better ways to go.”   
  
“It’ll be over quick, in about a minute. Eat as much of it as you can.” Cas looks away.   
  
Dean suddenly feels really scared. Like fucking terrified.  “Cas?” he says, his voice trembling.    
  
“I’m here. I just-- I can’t watch, Dean. Even if this is a dream.” Cas keeps his head bowed but he moves next to Dean, close but eyes averted.    
  
Dean starts shoveling the foul tasting pasta into his mouth, choking it down, his eyes burning. He manages to swallow down half a dozen bites before his hands seize up and the bowl slips out of his hands, shattering at their feet. Strong hands wrap around him as his body gives out.   
  
“It’s okay, I’m here,” Cas murmurs against his ear, his voice fading away from Dean as the room blackens…

Dean blinks his eyes open to darkness and starts coughing roughly. The beam of a flashlight on the ground casts strange shadows in the abandoned warehouse that he now remembers. He’s laying on a foul-smelling, lumpy and moist mattress with an IV in one of his pale arms.    
  
He rips it out and looks over at Cas’ tear-streaked face next to him on the mattress. He’s about to slap his cheek to rouse him but black eyelashes flutter and Cas blinks himself awake, turning his head like he knows Dean is staring.   
  
“You’re crying,” Cas says raspily.    
  
“So are you.”   
  
“That was very unpleasant.”   
  
The sound of footsteps interrupts them and motivates them to try to get up until they see the lanky form of Sam enter the room. “Dean! You’re alright?” Sam crouches beside him and feels his pulse to check his heart rate.   
  
“Yeah, Sam, I’m-- I think I’m okay.” Dean feels weak and dizzy so he lays back on his elbows, watching Cas get up and brush himself off.   
  
His little brother stands up and looms over him, hands on hips, whatever threat was there is apparently taken care of considering his ease. “We got to you pretty quick so I think you’ll be good once we get some food and water in you.” Sam looks between Cas and Dean. “So was it the same dream you’d been sucked into before?”   
  
Like scenes flashing in a movie montage he remembers Cas, a kiss, the rings, a wedding album. Dean clears his throat. It didn’t occur to him that it was a Djinn until Cas was there, the real one, and in all that time the weirdest part wasn’t even being married to Cas. The weirdest part to Dean was simply figuring out why he didn’t remember getting to that house.    
  
He can feel his cheeks begin to burn when he realizes Cas saw, well, he doesn’t even know what it looked like from Cas’ point-of-view. Maybe Cas just thought it was them together like they are at the bunker, but just in a house.   
  
“I do not understand. What dream did he have before?”   
  
“Oh, you don’t wanna know about that,” Dean says, sitting up and swallowing several times through the dizziness.    
  
Sam ignores Dean. “Back before we even met you Dean had this whole dream. Married, mom was alive, I was there with Jess. Basically the Djinn reached into Dean’s subconscious and pulled up his deepest desires to entice him to stay in the dreamworld.”   
  
Cas looks sharply at Dean, squinty-eyed and scrutinizing but miracles really do happen. He, thankfully, keeps his trap shut.   
  
“Yup, you got it figured out. Pretty damn similar dream,” Dean says with a forced chuckle that sounds pained. The look from Cas intensifies until something seems to click and his expression softens into understanding.   
  
Dean is beyond uncomfortable, mentally, emotionally, --and definitely-- physically. “Uh, so we gonna get outta here? This mattress smells like piss.”   
  
Sam and Cas help him up and he ends up leaning heavily on Cas while Sam collects the abandoned flashlight and starts walking off, leading the way out.   
  
“Uh, Cas?” Dean wraps an arm around Cas’ waist for support, with Cas’ left arm about his shoulder holding him tightly. “Just-- don’t tell Sam.”   
  
The large hand on his shoulder squeezes gently. “You’re secret is safe with me, Dean.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER (if you skip to this note for info on the suicide warning):  
> It's a Djinn dream. One way to escape is to die in the dreamworld. This is not a real suicide and I don't get into extremely graphic detail but this still may bother some people. Also, it is an assisted suicide.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the drabble of the day. And I hope no one ever looks at my browser search history because the word of the day was poison and I looked up some pretty crazy stuff. In the end I kept the poison bit vague since this is just a quick one-shot.
> 
> I do see myself expanding on this story in the future because I kinda have a kink for Djinn dreams and amnesia, if ya hadn't noticed by my bookmarks and my own stories.
> 
> XOXOXO
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	4. Sky Above the Sea Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't know if his mind had been playing tricks on him ten years ago, when he nearly drowned, or if the boy with electric blue eyes was real. Each year he returns to the sea to wait for the boy that saved him so that they can be together again.
> 
> Promptober Inspirational word is: UNDERWATER  
> Rated: Teen+

Dean has returned to this spot at the same time every year for the past decade, since he was 15.

His eyes graze the gently lapping water, searching for something --or someone-- specific but he doesn't hold his breath. Each year that passes in silence has caused him to become harder and more jaded. But still he comes, still he waits, still he watches.

In the beginning, when he first began to return to this same spot facing the sea, he had been naively hopeful.

He remembers the first year he came back, how he'd counted down 360 days until his family would return. He walked down to the beach from their seafront hotel to the pack of boulders.

Clutching the small conch shell he had strung on a black cord and hung around his neck, he had waited with nervous excitement and bated breath. He learned his lesson last time and stayed off the slippery, large rocks. Instead he stayed on the beach, digging his toes into moist sand. He waited and he waited, coming out there every day of their vacation.

But the boy never came.

He tried to rationalize his experience.

Perhaps he hit his head when he slipped between the boulders and was trapped beneath the water.

Maybe it was a current that pulled him out from under their unmoving weight.

It must have been his imagination conjuring up the boy with dark hair waving unruly in the water, with electric blue eyes that seemed to pierce Dean's soul.

All he knows is he almost drowned but was saved, either by pure dumb luck or a miracle from God.

This tenth year of coming back, of waiting for his savior to reunite with him, is Dean’s last. This is his farewell. To what, exactly, he is still deciding.

A farewell to innocence, to dreams, to the creature that shouldn't exist but he swears he saw. Where else did he get the pale blue and white conch shell he is currently holding in his fist? A shell he searched online for and yet he couldn’t find its match in any recorded existence.

A harsh wind picks up and whips his hair but he stands firmly on the sandy shore, squinting out at the blue waters awash in gold as the sun puts herself to sleep. The wind drags the water up in larger waves, kissing at his barefeet and jean-wrapped legs, spraying his lips with salty sea.

He opens his hand enough for the shell to slip out, catching the cord before the necklace can fall into the shallow waters before him. He has memorized every line and bump, each edge of the white shell dipped in blue like it was dyed. But he knows it wasn’t dyed. It was given to him from the deep and is ages old. He isn’t even sure how he knows these things. Unless he’s allowed his imagination too much power over logical thought.

Dean looks over at the huge stones jutting out from the beach and into water, considering them and asking himself if he's brave enough to climb them one last time. It would seem only fitting to say goodbye from there, to return the shell in the very spot he near drowned.

He looks at his shell and slips it back over his head so he can bend over to roll his jeans up rather than put it in his pocket and risk crushing it. He has taken great care of it for ten years and wouldn’t it just be like him to destroy it now, right at the end.

He steps over to the smallest boulder and climbs up. It’s slippery with moss and seaweed, leaving his hands cold and covered in dark slime.

He gingerly steps to the next boulder and then the next. Between each of them is a large space and dark sea water below. He slips several times but rights himself. He isn't a scrawny kid anymore. He's a man, with a strong core and excellent balance.

But even that isn't always enough. The wind slaps against the rocks and at him fiercely, the harsh spray of water stinging his eyes until he closes them and is temporarily blinded. He slips and lands on his ass, pain shooting up his back.

Grumbling to himself, Dean rolls over to get up on his knees but the wind assaults him again. The rock is too slippery and he slides, pushed by the elements that seem determined to throw him back into the water and claim the soul that got away from them a decade ago.

He hits the cold water with a breath-stealing splash. He is disoriented by the impact and by the change of temperature but there’s still enough light that he can see which direction he needs to swim to break the surface and suck in life-giving air.  
  
Dean frantically brushes his arms out to the side and kicks his feet. It’s hard to gauge how far he was sucked under but he guesses he only has a mere ten feet to swim his way through when he gets pulled by a strong current.  
  
Like an invisible hand it pulls him down and away, presumably away from the shore. His lungs are beginning to burn and he needs to get oxygen right now or…  
  
Something large swims up in front of him, blocking him from the current’s tug. Dean reflexively jerks away believing it to be a shark or large fish, but he can’t escape the hands that settles against his shoulders and pull him from the current and upward where air and sea meet.   
  
Dean breaches the surface and gasps in oxygen, sputtering and clutching the creature’s shoulders in return. By the dying light of day he can make out dark hair plastered against a human-looking face and familiar blue eyes.  
  
“Yo--you. It’s you!” Dean yells, curling his fingers tighter into cool, bare skin. “Where the fuck have you been?”  
  
The creature tilts his head at Dean, looking over his face and smiling softly, keeping them afloat so that Dean can catch his breath. His eyes continue to travel over Dean like he is both salvation and revelation.   
  
He says only two words, confirming that Dean was right all along. This is the same creature, only older. They had both been boys before and now they’re both men, clutching each other as they gently bob in the sea.   
  
“Hello, Dean.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated breath, tears slipping out and down his cheeks. “Yes, it’s me. I came back. Again and again,” Dean says, lightly shaking the creature. “Where were you, Cas?” He wants to be angry and rant and rage but he’s just so relieved and he is trying to decide if he’s delusional or dead at this moment.  
  
“I was… detained,” Cas says uncomfortably. His eyes drop down and land on the shell laying against Dean’s chest just below the surface. Cas reaches out and softly murmurs, “You kept it safe all this time?”  
  
“What do you mean ' _detained'_?” Dean asks, ignoring the question as Cas reaches out his left hand to pick up the shell.   
  
“They did not like that I saved you. They knew when you’d come back and would prevent me from coming to find you each time. This time, however, I broke free and I don't think they know I'm gone yet or they'd be here.”  
  
“Pretty nice timing there, Cas. ‘Cause I wasn’t gonna come back after this time,” Dean says, his teeth beginning to chatter. Hell, who is he kidding? He said that the last five years and he couldn’t stay away, always pulled back to the same place, at the same time. Each time he was going to chuck the shell into the water he only clutched it harder, angrily replacing it about his neck and letting the shell rest near his heart.  
  
“May I?” Cas asks, holding up the shell.  
  
Dean bows his head and lets Cas slip the necklace off with both hands. Dean starts to sink a little, unable to buoy himself on his own in waterlogged jeans. Cas notices and quickly slips an arm under his, Dean's arm coming around Cas' neck. He holds the necklace up for them both to see with his other hand. The shell begins to glow a light blue.  
  
“Holy shit, Cas. What’s it doin’?”  
  
“This is my power, but also what keeps me imprisoned to the sea and all of its laws. I should not have saved you that day,” Cas says, but he does not sound bitter. In fact, he sounds mighty proud of himself. “I knew they’d come for me, my brethren, and make me pay by stealing my power and letting the sea consume me. I gave this to you so that one day you could come back and set me free if you so chose.”  
  
“Set you free? Imprisoned and detained? It sounds like a bunch of bureaucratic oceanic bullshit. Or slavery. Did you not have a choice? You’ve been living like this for ten years? Cas,” Dean says sadly, “if I’d have known…”  
  
“Hush. We are here now. We need to make shore and quick,” Cas says, looking around the water at something Dean can’t see. Dean can see Cas is trying to school his expression but his eyes look hard and determined suddenly. It makes Dean’s adrenaline surge and once again instinct kicks in. He wants outta the water… now!  
  
The wind picks up wildly and Cas fights hard to swim them closer to the beach. Dean didn’t realize just how far out he had been pulled but it looks like they’re at least half a mile away. He works hard to help swim.  
  
“Cas, just lemme go. We can swim better alone,” Dean yells above the roar of the wind. He knows wasting his breath only slows them down but he also knows he's weighing Cas down. If Cas would just let go then at least maybe Cas could get free...  
  
Ignoring him, Cas tightens his grip and crazily enough the waves begin to roll in backward, crashing into them. It’s all a blur of stinging water and disorientation. During several moments Dean thinks his lungs will burst from near-drowning. But Cas prevails and keeps swimming and dragging Dean until his feet touch the sea floor several feet out from the shore.  
  
“Dean,” Cas calls out when the water becomes more and more shallow, “you’re going to have to pull me the rest of the way.”  
  
“I got you. Cas, I got you,” Dean pants, wrapping his arms around Cas and pulling him to his chest, running backward as fast as he can in the suckling sand that tries to slow him down.  
  
Dean doesn’t let Cas go until they’re several feet up the beach in dry sand. Dean falls backward onto his butt, Cas between his legs. They are both heaving for breath. Or at least Dean is as Cas seems to be struggling on dry land like a fish outta water. Which, Dean supposes, is an ample description as he looks down the length of Cas' body.  
  
This is the first time he’s gotten a good look at Cas below his chest. Gold bangles decorate his arms and seaweed clings to his torso. But just below his navel and all the way down is one long fish-like body covered scales, in pale blue, like the shell. His fin twitches and slaps at the sand in quick successions.  
  
“You… you’re… a fish,” Dean says, eyes wide, moving out from behind Cas so he can sit next to him and see his very human-like face. The only difference are the gills fluttering behind slightly elongated ears, which are actually kinda cute. Cas scowls, clearing unhappy with what must be a derogatory word to his kind. “Okay, not a fish. A mer-man?”  
  
Cas nods and squints toward the horizon. "Is that... does that bother you?"  
  
"Hell no, Cas. You're you, no matter what package you come in." Dean brushes wet hair off of Cas' forehead, leaving a dusting of sand to cling to damp skin.   
  
Cobalt blue eyes turn to Dean and it warms Dean despite his shivering in the cooling night air. Cas miraculously held onto the shell the entire time and holds it up now. It begins to glow again. “Dean,” he says in a small gasp as he struggles to breathe in oxygen without the aid of water. “I need you to crush this shell and release it’s power.”  
  
“Me?” Dean asks loudly and Cas nods again.   
  
"It has to be you. When I saved you I also chose you. You're the only one," Cas says, a hint of desperation and fear, as if Dean could deny him at all. Not when he's waited a decade for Cas and hasn't gone a day without thinking about him, wondering if he was truly real or if they could be together again.  
  
Dean takes the shell. “Okay, but what’ll it do?”  
  
“It’ll release me from my prison. It’ll make me like you.” Cas tilts his head, his fin slapping the sand lazily. His breathing becomes more erratic and he’s growing pale. “Hurry,” he says in fear, “or I’ll have to go back in the water. My brethren are close. If I go back in they’ll…”  
  
Without waiting for Cas to finish Dean jumps to his feet and begins looking around him for a stone. “You ain’t goin’ back in there, Cas. You’re staying with me now, got it?” He finds a large basketball sized one and rolls it close to Cas who is lying in the sand looking up dully at the sky, his fin still.   
  
Dean immediately looks for another. “You-n-me, we'll be together now, okay? I’ll keep you safe.” In the grasses growing nearby he finds one about the size of his hand.  
  
“Hold on, Cas.” Dean sets the shell on the larger rock and brings down the smaller one, crushing the glowing shell into a blinding white light that Dean has to shut his eyes against, lifting his forearm to cover his face.  
  
He cracks his eyes open once his eyelids stop burning a red-orange, indicating the power that was released has died down. Cas is still lying on the sand, still damp and covered in strips of slimy seaweed, but he’s human… and very naked.   
  
As Cas tries to sit up braced against his elbows, Dean strips off his soaked shirt and lays it over Cas’ lap. Cas jerks at touch of the cold fabric, eyes snapping up to Dean. He looks alert, cheeks pink with oxygen-giving life. “Sorry,” Dean mutters, crouching down to his level. “You’ve got… human parts now. Parts that people keep private and don’t tend to show off out in the open. Gotta keep your junk covered.”  
  
“Junk?”  
  
Dean chuckles breathlessly and starts to help Cas up so they can walk up the beach to his hotel and get warm. “You’ve got  _a lot_   to learn, Cas.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a whole backstory here. Something that bonded these two together back when they were teen boys. Obviously they spoke to each other long enough to learn each other's names and for Cas to entrust his grace/power/shell to Dean. *le sigh*
> 
> I've never read a mer-man fic about Destiel, or any other ship, so I do apologize if this is similar to any other work. I am hoping it's completely unique and I really want to expand on it in the near future.
> 
> If you want more like this please drop me a comment and let me know. If there's a lot of interest I'll bump it up on my list of 'things to write'.
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	5. Just Wanted Some Jerky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is in a gas station when it gets held up by an amateur robber. Dean gets shot and painkillers help to make for a humorous recovery.
> 
> Promptober word is: LONG  
> Rated: Mature  
> Violence tag: gun violence; typical violence that you would see in the show.

**Wednesday, October 4, 2017 - 6:02pm**    
  
  
Dean wanders up the aisles of the Gas-n-Sip looking at all the snacks. Almost every one of these convenience stores, across the nation, are identical in where they place everything from the candy to the chips to the corn nuts.  
  
“Heya, you guys got any jerky?” Dean calls out loudly since he’s the only one in the store just as the door jingles at the arrival of another patron. No one answers him and he calls out again, thinking Sam is the one who just stepped inside, probably impatient after waiting out at the pump. “Sam, they got jerky over there?”  
  
“Put your hands up,” a high, nervous voice says shakily as Dean walks out of the aisle to figure out why no one is answering him. A man with a black ski mask is pointing a gun at the cashier.  
  
“Well, you’re not Sammy,” Dean says cockily, holding his hands up.  
  
The guy jerks hard, startled by Dean’s sudden presence and devil-may-care ease with a gun now being waved around. He turns the gun on Dean.  
  
“Look, I think I have several hundo in my wallet. Why don’t you come-n-git it?” Dean taunts him. He keeps his hands up and relaxes even though his pulse is hammering in his temple and he can feel sweat cooling at the low of his back. But better the trigger-happy fool is pointing the gun at him and not the innocent cashier.  
  
Because Dean had noticed the robber holding the gun all wrong. Rule number one: don’t put your finger over the trigger unless you’re about to pull it. This guy not only had his finger over the trigger but he was pressing it ever so slightly.  
  
Dean doesn’t dare look at the cashier and draw the robber’s attention back to him, but out of his peripheral vision he can see him jab the emergency button beneath the counter even as he continues to fill a dirty backpack with cash.  
  
If this was a little ma and pa store he might be able to count on someone keeping a shotgun or a handgun behind the counter but this is a commercial store and the cashier is barely an adult, maybe just turned old enough to sell alcohol. He won’t have a gun back there.  
  
“Why--why don’t you just get on the floor?” the guy says, high voice muffled because part of his facial covering is blocking his mouth.  
  
Dean moves one hand to the side. “I’m just gonna grab my wallet. It’s in my back pocket,” Dean says slowly, moving his hand further behind him where his gun is tucked into the back of his jeans.  
  
The man shakes his gun at Dean as he yells at the cashier. “Are you done with the money yet?” He backs up, whipping the gun between the cashier and Dean.

Everyone tenses and Dean brings his hand back to show that he isn't a threat, before he could manage to get his gun.

  
Just then the door bursts open and Sam lunges at the robber…  
  
  
  
**Wednesday, October 4, 2017 - 7:12pm**  
  
“I just wanted jerky,” Dean laments before biting down on the leather belt his brother is shoving in his mouth.  
  
“Why do I feel like your stomach is always gettin’ us in trouble? Turducken burgers and tacos to name a few,” Sam says conversationally to try and keep Dean calm as he pokes around at Dean’s burning thigh. “Dean, I dunno, man… I can dig the bullet out but you’re losing blood.”  
  
“Unh ass,” Dean growls against the belt.  
  
Sam pulls it out of his mouth after he’s done inspecting Dean’s wound to determine if he can handle it on his own or if they need professional help. “I can’t understand you. What?”  
  
“Just, argh! This fucking hurts,” Dean arches his back as another flash of white hot pain shoots up his leg. He bites out, “Call. Cas,” on each long exhale.  
  
“You think I didn’t think of that? He’s on his way but for now… maybe I should just take you to a hospital.”  
  
Dean can feel his vision going dark where he lay on the backseat of the Impala, blinded by searing pain that is getting worse as his adrenaline wears off. He becomes aware of sirens wailing in the distance, like they’re in a tunnel, but for all he knows they’re right next to his car. He can feel the car jostle around as Sam gets in, the rumble of her engine vibrating beneath him.  
  
“Shit,” Sam says as he drives. Dean can barely make out what he’s saying. “We can’t go... hospital. Then they’ll know... here. There’s surveillance... gas station. Shit!”  
  
After several run-ins with authority, Sam and Dean aren’t exactly regular Joe Schmoes. They could be recognized, detained, thrown in prison…  
  
  
  
**Wednesday, October 4, 2017 - 7:56pm**  
  
Dean barely registers he’s back at the hotel, Sam looming over him, sudden and sharp pain in his right leg making him buck up off the bed, instantly awake.  
  
“You’re okay, I got the bullet. Just relax,” Sam says shakily. Dean’s vision swims --in shades of the orange of Sam’s shirt and in red like the blood coating his brother’s nimble fingers-- before Dean passes out.  
  
  
  
**Wednesday, October 4, 2017 - 9:06pm  **  
  
Dean groans and shifts around on the bed, lifting up slow-as-molasses hands to his face to rub at his thick, heavy eyelids that don’t seem to want to open. His hands brush down his face and he can feel the wet slick of fresh drool.  
  
“Mm whas happen?”  
  
“Dean, it’s Cas. We gave you something for pain.”  
  
Dean manages to crack open an eyelid to see the blur of tan and blue and black wavering near him. He smiles lazily and reaches out a hand that doesn’t make contact and falls limply against the mattress.  
  
“S’good yer here,” he mumbles. “Yer an angle. No.” Dean chuckles. “Angle. Yer an angle. You a ri-i-i-ght angle or, a obtu-u-u-se?”  
  
“I am neither a right angle nor an obtuse angle, Dean. I think you mean angel.”

Dean laughs again and tries to sit up, blinking his eyes open further, but he can’t seem to get his elbows under him to support his weight so he flops back against his pillow.

Whatever he is on is making him feel really drunk, his vision is swimming. But at least things are coming into focus, like the concerned face of Cas that comes closer as he sits down on the edge of the bed beside Dean.

  
“You should rest. Don’t try to get up.”  
  
“Where you git drugs? I feel s’good. S-s-s’good.” With Cas sitting next to him Dean raises his hand slowly and swats at Cas’ thigh. “Yer a good angle. Th-ncks.”  
  
“Do you want me to turn the television on?”  
  
Dean frowns and turns his head from side to side, looking around the room. “Where Sam?”  
  
“He went to get more bandages. He had to rip up the bedsheets from the other bed in order to wrap your wound and I imagine that is not very sanitary.”  
  
Dean’s eyes stop straying and come back to Cas. “Yer so pretty.” Dean sighs deeply as though admitting that took a lot out of him.  
  
Cas’ lip twitches with the beginning of a smile. “Thank you, Dean.”  
  
Dean tries to squeeze Cas’ thigh where it landed moments ago. “Mean it.”  
  
“I’m sure you do.” Cas rests his hand over Dean’s and watches him. “You picked the perfect night to get shot.”  
  
“Thas me. Mistah Perr-fic.”  
  
Cas continues to tease him lightly. “I don’t know how you’re going to help me walk Claire down the aisle next weekend. I’m going to have to push you in a wheelchair.” Cas’ smile grows. “We could always bedazzle it.”  
  
“I… I’ll buh-dazzle you,” Dean threatens. “I’ll charm tha pants right off-ov ya.”  
  
Cas leans over, squeezing Dean’s hand and using his free one to cup Dean’s face. “I’d love to see you try when you’re like this. But you’re growing pale. Close your eyes and try to sleep, Dean.”  
  
  
  
**Wednesday, October 4, 2017 - 11:23 pm**  
  
Dean slowly comes-to on waves of barely-there pain wavering at the outer edges of his consciousness. Voices talk over him and he listens to them drone on.  
  
“Well," Sam says, shutting a door somewhere. "I think we got most of the blood cleaned up in the car and in the room. And we’ll be out of here before cleaning staff notices the missing bed sheets.”  
  
“I’ll watch over him, Sam, so you can go to sleep. This has been a long night for you both.”  
  
“Yeah, I just wish he’d not gotten in the middle of a goddamn robbery. He should have let the idiot take the money. What was he thinking?”  
  
“You can wish for a redo all you want but we know it won’t happen.”  
  
“It’s just-- it’s my fault. I went in there guns blazing and it tripped the guy up. Dean got shot because of me.”  
  
“Sam, do not do this to yourself. Look, Dean is right here. You went in with the best intentions.”  
  
“I’mma gonna need more drugs,” Dean interrupts. Sam is by his side in an instant, Cas still sitting on the edge of his bed. “Whoa, y’all gonna have to back up. I’ll live.”  
  
Sam steps back and tucks his hands in his pockets. “I know. I’m--I’m sorry, Dean.”  
  
Dean waves at him. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve been through worse,” he says even as he grimaces. “Like, a lot worse. Now do as Cas says and go to bed. Cas, drugs?”  
  
Usually Sam gets another room when Cas joins them, but Dean knows he doesn’t want to be far. And it isn’t like he and Cas are gonna be doing the horizontal mambo, so Sam slips into the spare bed and turns away toward the wall.  
  
Dean watches Cas get up and putter around the room, grabbing clean bandages and the drugs one of them must’ve pilfered from a drugstore or hospital. Hell, maybe they were leftovers in Dean’s bag. He doesn’t care enough to ask.  
  
Cas lifts up a package and waves it at Dean from across the room. "Your brother got your jerky when he got bandages." Dean's pain is edging back in so he doesn't feel like eating but he offers Cas a smile. Cas nods knowingly and sets it back on the table.  
  
Once Dean’s bandages are clean and he’s slipping back into his haze, Cas crawls in next to him and semi-reclines against the headboard, pulling Dean up against his chest to hold him. The meds haven’t quite kicked in to their full power so Dean focuses on the scruff of Cas’ jaw against the side of his face and closes his eyes.  
  
“Sleep,” Cas whispers, pressing a kiss to Dean's temple and snuggling down a little until he is comfortable.  
  
Dean lets sleep take him under as the last vestiges of pain trickle away and he’s left feeling warm and content. Tomorrow is a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone get the man some beef jerky....... and pie while yer at it! 
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional. And this is just a drabble so no major research went into it (usually I research the heck out of stuff I don't know). So with that in mind... it's just a fictional story. Do not attempt to self-treat, do not take this story as medical advice, etc., etc.
> 
> While I've never been shot, I did slice my thumb clear open and severed nerves. Some of the pain/recovery ideas I got are from my personal experience with that.


	6. Of Wings and Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean loves LARPing and when his faithful friend, and resident Queen, requests he share his tent with a stranger, Dean is a little put out. Until he meets the man and instantly falls head-first into a serious crush.
> 
> Today's magic word is: SWORD.  
> Rated: Mature

The hunter strolls through camp, between the randomly spaced tents, following his nose to fire and barbecuing meats. He breathes in deep and sighs contentedly. He got the whole weekend off for the Summer Solstice LARPing event. Of course the actual Solstice is on Tuesday but most people have the weekend free. Therefore Queen of Moondoor (or rather the behind-the-scenes people who organize everything) decreed the Solstice be celebrated the weekend before.  
  
This is also one of two events per year where they stay over two nights. The first order of business when arriving is to pitch tents, get into character outfits if people hadn’t arrived ready, and help set up any of the other major tents where food is stored and prepared, another for their computer database, another for storage, and so on and so forth.  
  
Dean just got done helping put together the armory tent where players can “buy” and trade weapons, find lost weapons, or store their gear. He’s famished and continues onward where voices and laughter carry, the tantalizing scent of food carried on the breeze.

He greets a pair of maidens who pass him by, tightly corseted in jewel-tone dresses, with full skirts that brush the ground. He turns around to watch them walk away with an appreciative grin, more from his good mood than feeling any sort of connection.  
  
With one last farewell look at the women, who don’t give him a second glance, he turns and almost collides with a scribe. “Sorry, Kevin. I mean, apologies, Scribe.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” the younger man says, head ducked over a clipboard full of papers he’s looking over and checking off. “You already been to the armory?”  
  
“Just coming from there. Everything is tip-top shape.”  
  
Kevin snorts and walks around Dean. “Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes heavenward and shakes his head. If that guy wants to spend the entire weekend stressing then Dean will just steer clear. He passes through another row of tents and ducks into his own that he placed a bit further away from everyone else. He wants to grab his sword and inflate his air mattress so he won’t have to worry about it later. Within his tent he can use technology freely, but outside the tent and special designated areas, phones and modern devices are forbidden.  
  
Smiling, he plugs his battery-powered air pump into the queen mattress and flips it on, turning to grab his sword and tuck it into its sheath in his buttersoft, leather belt. He whittled it himself from a felled walnut tree on his property and never trusts to leave it at the armory. He shouldn't have left it unattended in his tent either and vows to keep it with him the rest of the weekend.  
  
Satisfied that everything appears to be in order he bends over to exit and zips up his tent, finally,  _finally_ , able to go get something to eat.  
  
“Hail,” he calls out to several familiar faces, stopping to make polite small talk until he’s standing before the fire and watching the volunteer cooks turn meats and stir things in kettles. It really feels like they’re in another time, once he looks past the tents full of modern things, the parking lot several acres away packed with cars and the smartphone he has set to silent in his pocket.  
  
A flutter of activity comes from the direction of their makeshift town. Dean follows everyone else’s gaze to see a glimmer of red and a group of people move toward the fire. Toward the back of the group Dean swears he sees a shudder of black wings and a flash of silver but it disappears behind a few tall men that role-play as giants, of course.  
  
Charlie Bradbury, Dean’s friend and confidante, and also current Queen of Moondoor, joins her people for the feast.  
  
Ever since she became the reigning queen, Dean doesn’t get to interact with her during LARP events at his current rank unless she has a special task to speak with him about. But right now she locks eyes with him, a determined expression alighting her face as she heads straight for him. Instantly he straightens and bows at the waist.  
  
“Hunter,” she says, a little breathlessly from her trek across the great expanse between her tent and the ‘food court’.  
  
“My Queen..?” he says in a questioning tone, wondering why she’s speaking to him.  
  
“One of my newest, and my favorite pet of them all, needs a place to bunk. I am aware your brother could not join you on this excursion. Do you, perchance, have available space to take in this weary soul?”  
  
Dean smiles lasciviously. “I see. The Queen is sending me a lovely maiden to stay..”  
  
Charlie scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. If any fair maiden needs space then you know I’d make room in my own tent before sending the poor thing to you.” Her scowl smooths out and she grins wickedly.  
  
So that means Charlie wants some strange guy to bunk with him. Dean rubs the back of his neck and drops out of character a bit. “I dunno. I mean, what if they snore or smell really bad… I got standards.”  
  
Charlie arches a brow at him. She’s honestly a fair queen and hates all the political mumbo-jumbo but that doesn’t mean she won’t wield her power. “I told you he’s my new favorite.” Charlie drops out of character and stomps her foot gently, only because Dean is her BFF and they're as alone as can be at a public event.

“Look, the guy set up his tent near a tree and, by some stroke of dumb luck, an old branch snapped and fell on it, raining down a bunch of leftover rainwater and busting most of the tent’s metal support rods.”  
  
Dean throws his head back, annoyed, but compassion still tugs at him. “Okay, fine.” He clears his throat. “I mean… Yes, Queen. Would you be so kind as to introduce us?” He needs to meet this guy while he has time to change his mind.  
  
“Yes, but first let’s grab food before it gone.” She turns toward her handmaiden and has her run to get them two plates. Dean grins. One of the perks of being friends with the queen, when she’s able to find a reason to interact with him anyway.  
  
Charlie walks over to her reserved seat to wait and Dean stands near as if he's guarding her. He scans the crowds, people grouping off with their friends or finding a newer person to drag into their fold. This is one reason he loves LARPing. Here, everyone is the same. There are no real outcasts or bickering, save for the random handful who tend to have more difficult personalities.  
  
Dean is given a paper plate of food, one of the few exceptions of the ‘no modern stuff allowed’ rule for sanitary reasons, and continues to people-watch until Charlie is ready to introduce him to his new bunk-mate that he’s not thrilled about. He glances over to the fire and through the flames he sees that flash of silver metal and black feathers again. Maybe it's a dragon or a phoenix.    
  
He keeps his eyes on them this time to try to get a good look. After a moment a tall man with windblown, dark hair steps out and starts walking toward Dean. He forgets to breathe and can’t tear his eyes away from the armor-clad chest, defined and bare biceps, and the wicked black wings fanning out behind the man with the strong, stubble-dusted jaw. As he gets closer Dean notices his striking blue eyes and the curve of his lips.  
  
Dean opens his mouth when the man gets close, ready to say something, but he bypasses Dean for Charlie. Much like earlier when the maidens passed by, Dean turns and follows the man with his eyes and this time,  _this time_ , he feels a connection, something that is beyond just a good mood.  
  
“Ah, Castiel,” Charlie says loudly. “I found you a tent to stay in, if you’re agreeable. Dean, come over here.”  
  
No… fucking… way.  
  
Hot dude with wings is going to be bunking with him? The guy with the firm expression, arched brows, and that entire aura of mystery hanging about him that makes him appear larger than life? Dean feels wholly small and meek.  Despite those out-of-left-field feelings, he clears his throat and steps over.  
  
The man, this Castiel, looks over when Dean stands beside him and his stoic expression softens a little. At least enough to make Dean’s heart stop and shock his brain into silence. Up close he's even more stunning and those self-deprecating feelings Dean had had flee as quickly as they came because under this cobalt stare and barely-there smile Dean feels himself being weighed with far more worth than he may deserve.  
  
“Dean?” Charlie says, clapping her hands. He looks over at her, realizing he was staring, and she laughs. “I said… this is Castiel and he’s the one staying with you. If you could help him with his things?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, of course. I was just-- where’s your stuff?” He looks down at his plate of food and then at Cas’ chestplate, lifting his eyes up to full lips and finally meeting azure eyes.  
  
“This way,” Castiel says, gesturing with a sweep of his arm toward the treeline.  
  
They forget to say farewell to Charlie, carefully picking their way past the other groups of people. At several points Dean has to step close to Castiel’s side, so close that he can feel the ghost of Castiel’s feathers tickling the back of his neck and shoulders, like a protective covering.  
  
“Well, here I am,” Castiel says, the pitiful scene of a crushed tent before them. “I was told to leave the tent as-is and we’d deal with it later, but I need to grab my bag.”  
  
Dean puts out a hand to stop Castiel from reaching down for the branch. “You’re gonna rip your wings off. I can get it for you.” He feels useful, and even a bit chivalrous if he’s honest, reaching down to grab the wet branch and pull it off and dragging it out of the way.  
  
Castiel holds up the canvas pieces and Dean pokes his head in, streaks of water running off and soaking parts of his hair. “Wow, dude, I think your air bed is punctured seven ways to Sunday. But, uh, here’s your pillow and bag,” he says, pulling the bag out with him.  
  
“Thank you, Dean.”  
  
“You’re welcome, Cas. Now, come on, let’s get back to my tent so you can put your stuff down and then let’s see if we can find you a sleeping bag or maybe an extra air bed. I should have room for a twin.”  
  
After delivering his things to Dean’s tent, they talk to the lost-and-found and to several people, unable to locate anything Cas can use. It's growing dark, many people turning in for an early start tomorrow or gathering around the fire to drink someone’s basement mead brew. They decide to return to the tent because the entire first full day is tomorrow and packed with activity.

Dean ducks into the tent first, turns on his electric lamp and fidgets whereas Cas steps in like he owns the place and squats down to rummage in his bag. “Are you okay with me undressing here..? Or I can go down to the restroom.”

The park that they rent for the event has a large restroom facility in a brick building not far from the parking lot. The men's side and women's side each have communal showers and toilets stalls.

“Nah, I mean, we're just two dudes. You don't have anything I haven't seen.” And yet Dean turns his back and clenches his jaw, internally calling himself an idiot. He's well aware this is attraction-at-first-sight and he needs to be cool and  _chillthefuckout._

Cas’ wings aren't too big until trapped in a tent with them. Cas stands, turns, and feathers brush against the back of Dean’s head. It tickles and makes Dean shiver.

“Actually, if you wouldn't mind?" Cas asks, showing Dean his backside. "I don't think I can reach the clip.”

Dean swallows. “Somebody clipped your wings?” he jokes, because that is what he does when he gets nervous. He snorts at his own joke and smiles brighter when Cas chuckles instead of making fun of him, like Sam or Charlie would do.

Cas is almost his height and his build is smaller, but he's still solidly built. Dean lets his gaze linger across Cas’ shoulders in the dim light before he presses his hands against the back of Cas’ armor blindly to feel for what Cas called a clip.

“Is this it? I think I got it.” Dean undoes some buckle and the chest piece loosens. “Oops, I think--”

“It's okay, you can just unbuckle the whole thing. The wings are connected to it. It's an odd contraption.”

Dean lets his fingers trail down until he finds the next buckle. He clears his throat as he goes lower for the last one. “Uh, I-- you can sleep on the mattress. I mean, it's big enough. So long as you aren't some Kung Fu sleeper who kicks and throws punches in his sleep.”

Cas laughs and says, “I promise I’ll behave,” as the last buckles comes loose. Dean automatically grabs the underside of wings, noting how heavy they feel, as Cas slips out of the entire piece and sighs happily.

“That is… very cumbersome to wear all day--”

“Yeah, but they're cool. The wings, I mean. Like, really cool." 

Silver cuffs catch the lantern’s light as Cas turns, bare-chested, to face Dean and take the heavy costume piece from him. “And your sword, too, is very… cool,” Cas says awkwardly, like he’s never used the slang word before.   
  
While Cas sets his costume piece aside on the far wall, Dean pulls his sword out of his belt and holds it up like an offering against both of his palms. “I made it myself. A walnut tree in my yard got infested and then struck by lightning. It just kept getting beaten and broken down so I wanted to make something of, uh, worth... from the ashes, so to speak.”  
  
Cas reaches out long fingers to trail down the sanded-smooth blade. “It is very beautiful, Dean,” he murmurs, lifting his eyes up to Dean. “Thank you, for everything. I feel bad about imposing…”

“Pssh. Don't sweat it. Usually my little bro is here but he couldn't come. And I don't-- well, I don't really like being alone so...” Dean clamps his mouth shut. He didn’t mean to admit to that.

“And yet you put your tent up clear on the edge a good distance away from everyone else?” Cas smirks and moves to unbuckle his pants.

Dean forces his eyes anywhere but on deft fingers unzipping tight black pants, spying the bed sheets still folded next to the air mattress. He busies himself by snapping open the fitted one to make the air-filled bed. It’ll be too hot to sleep on a sleeping bag and Dean prefers the feel of cotton.  
  
“Closer to the bathrooms,” Dean mumbles. For a blanket all he brought is a thin flat sheet but it’s big enough to share, the thought shooting electric sparks through his veins.

Cas continues to lightly tease him. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

“No, no,” Dean says softly. “That's not what I meant.” Thankfully Cas just lets the words linger instead of pushing for more information. So what if Dean has loneliness issues? It’s nobody’s business but his own. Cas is a stranger but Dean is acting like he’s got a man-sized crush, for Christ’s sake. Then again, he supposes, that’s probably exactly his problem. Damn it, he’s supposed to be Rico Suave.

Dean turns to his bag, remembering he needs to change as well. His plan to sleep in only his boxers just got nixed but thankfully he brought flannel pants. Dressed in his own pajamas, Cas pulls a flashlight and a toiletry pouch out of his bag and steps out.  
  
Dean takes the opportunity to finish changing in private before joining Cas so that they can head down to the facilities to brush teeth and piss. He’s usually not prude but there’s something sacred about Cas, worth making an effort for if it’s even a possibility, and Dean doesn’t want to make an ass of himself.   

Cas and Dean walk back to the tent when they’re done, a hush and darkness settled over most of the camp, with smoke and fire and laughter in the distance from the rebels who want to party as late as they can stand, despite a busy day tomorrow.  
  
When they get back inside Dean zips up the entryway and Cas waves toward the bed. “Do you have a preference?”

“Nope, pick whatever side,” Dean quips.

Cas chooses the far right of the bed, near the tent wall.

Dean hesitates before lowering himself to sit on the mattress. He grabs the flat sheet on the floor next to him and shakes it open, draping it over them both as he lies back.  
  
Dean snuffs the light. “G’night, Cas.”  
  
“Goodnight, Dean. See you in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a great start to what may become a full story but we're only doing drabbles for Promptober and I already went over the 2000-word limit by a bit already. *runs and hides*
> 
> Remember each drabble in this series is a stand-alone but that doesn't mean I won't come back to the blurbs later and expand on each story. I'm very much in love with exploring this story line further. If you're interested in more, leave me a comment and let me know!
> 
> I probably have typos and didn't have a chance to proofread and edit so don't worry - I'll fix 'em later. <3
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~
> 
> PS I've seen Moondoor and Moondor spellings. Based on SPN Transcripts (8x11) it is Moondoor so no throwing rotten tomatoes if you prefer the other spelling.


	7. Chasing Drum Beats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new kid at school seems really interesting and when Dean finally gets the courage to ask Castiel to be his creative writing partner for their midterm grade, he gets more than he bargained for and everything he didn't know he needed.
> 
> Promptober word of the day: SHY.  
> Rated: Teen+

He always sits alone, Dean notices. At the library, in the bleachers, underneath the old maple tree in the quad. He isn’t like anyone else. He doesn’t dress the same or talk the same or seem to like the typical things that teenagers really get into.  
  
It makes him... alluring.  
  
Dean has wanted to talk to him, say something, ever since he started school here two months ago. If he doesn’t like hacky sacks and fidget spinners, if he doesn’t date or party or listen to music from this century... then just what does Castiel Novak like? What captivates him and makes him smile?  
  
With that thought Dean wrinkles his nose and hefts his backpack up on his shoulder before heading to his car. What the hell is he thinking about? Making the guy smile?  
  
Dean backs up the Impala and gets in line to pull out of the parking lot, stealing a glance in his rear-view mirror at the dark-haired guy. Who happens to be watching a group of freshman misfits in amusement; watching them but not joining in before he begins what is likely his walk home.  
  
Dean turns his eyes back to the car in front of him, inching forward until he can pull out and put the school day behind him. He’s gonna go home, nuke some pizza rolls and veg out with Doctor Sexy. Midterms are coming up and he feels like his brain is fried.  
  
He gets good grades, some things coming to him naturally in a way, like history and English. But the constant flood of college prep and pressure from his dad to do what he wants, all of the information overload… it is wearing Dean down. The truth is that Dean doesn’t know what he wants. He knows what’s expected of him, sure. But  _what does he want?_  
  
After a pretty unimpressive night of doing nothing Dean is up bright and early the following morning to finish out another day of school.  
  
“TGIF, Sammy,” he says when his brother finally joins him in the car to hitch a ride. Dean takes him to school but Sam usually finds his own way home after. “You goin’ to that thing this weekend?”  
  
Sam snorts. “You mean the dance? Aren’t you?”  
  
“I dunno,” Dean sighs. If he’s been to one dance he’s been to them all. He’s just kinda tired of it. Maybe it’s the whole ‘getting older’ thing but he sees the flirting, the asking out and dumping, the guys betting that they’ll score behind their dates’ backs… sneaking drinks, trying to get laid… it just seems pointless.  
  
“Aww, did nobody want to go with you?” Sam teases, laughing.  
  
“Nah, man, I just-- I’m not feelin’ it.”  
  
Sam grows serious and stares at Dean, who keeps his eyes fixed on the scenery beyond the windshield. “Are you feeling okay?”  
  
Dean decides to lie. It’s just easier than opening up about all the pressure and stress he feels right now. “Not really, I think I might be coming down with something.”  
  
“Ew, well, don’t give it to me. I’m taking Jessica Moore and she is, like, way out of my league. I can’t mess this up and puke on her.” Sam screws up his face. “Why are you even going to school if you’re sick?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “I only have half-day today. I don’t want to get behind and I’m sure I’ll be alright for a couple hours.”  
  
If Dean really thinks about it he supposes that telling his brother he’s coming down with something isn’t too far off from the truth. He does feel flushed and his stomach is in knots. But it’s almost the weekend and he needs to just get today out of the way.  
  
His first class on American Government is incredibly boring but he has found it useful to an extent. Their big test is coming up next week. He leaves class  feeling more fatigued and sluggish than when he arrived.

His last class before he can go home is his elective and favorite: Creative Writing. He decides to sit in the back today to call less attention to himself.  
  
Castiel walks in 30 seconds before the tardy bell rings and slips into the chair next to Dean in the back. His presence, even though he isn’t looking toward Dean, makes Dean sit up straighter. Dean fiddles with a pencil while the teacher begins writing on the big white board in the front.  
  
“For part of your midterm grade we are going to be doing a group project.” A collective moan rises up, mostly from the freshmen and sophomores. “I’m not going to ask you to write a novel but I am interested in several things for this project. First, how can we work creatively when paired with someone else? Because it’s important to be able to collaborate. Your strengths may be another person’s weakness, and vice versa.  
  
“Also, working with someone else can really open your eyes to a whole new experience to glean ideas from. If we only draw from our own little bubble of experience then we end up with little to offer.

“So, what I want everyone to do is pair up, preferably with someone you can meet outside of class because I’m going to require a minimum 10,000 word story from each pair. You'll have a lot of work with brainstorming, executing, proofreading and editing.”  
  
As their teacher continues on about the merits of working in pairs, some people are already pointing at each other across the room or fist-bumping. Dean glances to his left at Castiel, who is clenching his jaw and looking downright sour.  
  
“Uh, hey. Cas, isn’t it?” Dean whispers, leaning over a little.  
  
Blue eyes turn to him, head slightly cocked. Dean suddenly thinks this is going to be a mistake but most everyone is already paired up while he hides in the back with a growing stomachache.  
  
“So, do you wanna do this together?”  
  
Cas frowns, lips turning down at the corners. “Why?”  
  
Dean is taken aback. He gestures around the room. “Looks like everybody is paired off and, I dunno…” Dean looks away when Cas doesn’t react. “Just forget it. I’m not moochin’ off ya. I’ve written more than 20K on my own so if I have to work alone…”  
  
“Okay,” Cas interrupts. “I mean, if you’re not hoping I’ll do all the work…”  
  
Dean interrupts him this time. “No way. I'm not that type. I pull my weight.”  
  
They both let the awkward exchange die down and turn back to whatever the teacher is saying. For the final five minutes of class she lets everyone get together with their partner to begin planning.  
  
Dean turns sideways in his seat and crosses his ankles. “I think we could do something really cool, maybe a mystery or fantasy. Are you able to meet after school at all?”  
  
“I’m pretty much on my own most of the time. So, yes, if we could meet at your place or the public library. I’d prefer to not work at my house,” Cas says, looking away.  
  
“Yeah, man, no problem. Give me your number.” If teachers so much as see a phone in school they're confiscated so Dean gets out paper to pass it over but Cas scoots close and reaches over to scribble a number down.

Dean catches a scent of spiced, musky vanilla that he tries to not follow when Cas pulls away. He folds the paper and slips it into his jean pocket to add to his phone later.  
  
“Maybe if you’re not too tired tomorrow we can meet?” Cas asks, gathering his bag up before the dismissal bell rings.  
  
Dean furrows his brow. Tomorrow is Saturday and he will probably get to sleep-in at least a little. “Why do you think I might be too tired tomorrow? Don’t you wanna get started tonight?”  
  
“Are you not going to the dance tonight?”  
  
“Oh, right. I’m not going, no.”  
  
Cas looks surprised, as surprised as the guy can look anyway. “Okay. Yes, I could come tonight. I gave you my cell number. Just text me the address and a good time.”  
  
The bell rings to dismiss class and they part ways.  
  
Dean heads home and immediately goes to the fridge for lunch. The refrigerated air feels good on his face but nothing looks appetizing. He ends up grabbing a handful of pretzels and goes to his room take a nap to shake off whatever is bothering him.  
  
Before he falls asleep he adds Castiel to his phone, texts him the address and to come over at 6.  
  
The next thing Dean knows his brother is shaking him awake. “Muh, wha!” Dean yells, swatting at Sam.  
  
“Dude, some guy’s here. Says he’s here to study.” Sam laughs. “You’re skipping the dance to hang out with the weirdo from school?”  
  
“Shut up, don’t call him that,” Dean snaps. He groans and rubs his eyes. “Wait, it’s already six?”  
  
“Few minutes ‘til. My ride will be here in a minute so I need to go. Get up and don’t leave your boyfriend waiting.” Sam makes kissy faces in Dean’s doorway before he disappears down the hall.  
  
Dean was hoping he’d feel better taking a nap but about five hours of hard sleep have left him feeling groggy and disoriented. Dean sits on the edge of his bed, hoping the nausea will pass when a car horn honks and the front door slams.  
  
He gets up and shuffles down the hall to the living room.  
  
“Dean? Are you okay?” Cas asks, standing up from the couch when Dean wanders in.  
  
“I’m-- I’m really sorry. I should’ve called or texted but I fell asleep. I think I’m sick.”  
  
Instead of getting angry or annoyed, Cas walks over and tucks his arm under Dean’s, turning him toward the couch. “Here, lie down,” he says, even as he reaches his free hand to Dean’s face. “You’re burning up.”  
  
Dean lays down like he’s told, tucking a throw pillow under his neck. “If you could just lock the door handle on your way out? My dad, uh, works late Friday nights. I don’t want him to get home and think I left it unlocked.”  
  
Cas ignores him. “Have you eaten? Do you have a thermometer? Any fever reducers?” Even as he fires off questions he walks off toward the bathroom. Dean can hear him opening cabinet and sliding open drawers before he returns with a thermometer to tuck under Dean's tongue.

“101.2,” Cas reads off after a minute. “You said you'll be alone?” Dean nods and Cas bites his lip as he stares down at Dean. “Do you trust me?”

Dean doesn't know where it comes from but he instantly replies, “Yes.” 

Satisfied with that response Cas grabs his backpack from the foyer and sits on the coffee table before Dean. “Peppermint is a natural fever reducer. I may have some Melaleuca as well…”

“Is that the new code word for weed? ‘Cause not sure that's gonna do me any good right now.”

Cas smiles a little and it changes his face so beautifully that Dean wants to see it again. Er, or maybe he's becoming delirious.

“No, it's the scientific name for Tea Tree oil. It can help fight bacterial and viral infections.”

Cas pulls out a pouch filled with small amber bottles before he drops to his knees and scoots close to lean against Dean's chest as he gingerly dabs small drops of oil against temples, cool fingers brushing across Dean's forehead and behind his ears.

"Who knew the shy guy carried around his own pharma,” Dean says lightly, watching him in a daze.  
  
“I'm not shy.” Cas smiles again. “I'm socially selective.”

Dean chuckles and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes when Cas pulls away. The peppermint oil overwhelms all the other scents Cas applied and it tingles like a cold heat.

“Uh, thanks, Cas. You don't hafta--”

“I want to. Socially selective, remember? And I'm choosing to stay so get comfortable. I'm going to make you some soup.”

Cas puts his oil things away and hands Dean the television remote, pushing up sleeves as he heads to the kitchen whistling under his breath. Dean doesn't know what to think. He's never met a high schooler --or even an adult-- quite like Cas. Not since before his mother died...

Dean can see him from where he lay as Cas contemplates things in the fridge and cabinets. Dean can believe his earlier admission that he trusts Cas because he inexplicably does. And he can feel himself falling… hard.

Or maybe it's the fever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly never thought I'd write a high school AU for Destiel. Of course this is just a teaser and not a full story but I love the idea of Cas being this enigma who wears strange socks, listens to indie music, and carries around his own essential oils and who doesn't care what people think about any of his quirks.
> 
> So I pulled a lot of this from personal experience regarding school and 'block scheduling'. I did have half-days as a senior because I had more credits than needed to graduate. I'd have two classes and go home to rest before work.
> 
> I do use essential oils BUT I am NOT a doctor so please do not take any of this as medical advice. Peppermint is a "hot" oil (it really does tingle/sting) so applying directly to skin would burn some people. I realize I didn't mention a carrier oil so let's assume Cas diluted each of his oils before putting them in his travel pouch. ;-)
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	8. Right Side of the Tracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bela Talbot will keep throwing extravagant parties until the day she dies... literally. And she makes a bet that her friend, Dean, won't make it to every party. But Dean keeps coming and it doesn't hurt that a certain mysterious (and handsome) stranger keeps eluding him until the stranger catches up to him.
> 
> Promptober word of the day: CROOKED  
> Rated: Teen+

Dean is already bored out of his mind and he’s only been at Bela Talbot’s party for five minutes. His tuxedo is also stuffy and uncomfortable, even if he does look absolutely amazing. But these black-tie affairs that she puts on every other weekend are stale and not exactly his idea of a good time.   
  
Maybe he should give her some pointers or encourage her to lighten up for the next one, show her how to really plan for a really good time, how a party really should be. With booze, dancing, and people who actually mean something to her.   
  
Somehow he couldn’t see the dying heiress taking Dean seriously. They’ve known each other since school, fighting competitively over anything they could find to fight about. Whether it was over sports, guys or out-dressing one another. She’d always win on the money front.   
  
Which is probably why she’d always win at these lavish affairs she keeps throwing, despite the fact that she’s getting sicker and sicker. Even now she looks pale past her plastered smile and rouged cheeks, lounging in a cushioned, red velvet chair with her ankles crossed demurely, talking to a small group that has converged around her.   
  
Dean takes a deep breath and steps into the ballroom, plucking a champagne flute from a tray and making his way over to let Bela know he is, yet again, attending one of her ridiculously expensive get-togethers. She had made the claim that there was no way Dean Winchester would come to every one of them and he is out to prove her wrong.   
  
Especially when there’s been a certain mysterious, and handsome, stranger that he’s seen in passing at a couple of the parties. He wants to actually catch the guy with the wild, dark hair and the crooked tie, and introduce himself one of these times.   
  
The people clustered around her disperse and he steps forward. “Bela,” he says in greeting, kissing the back of her hand, jewels winking at him under glimmering chandeliers.   
  
“Dean, so good of you to come. Again. I must tell you that I have quite the entertainment planned for tonight.”   
  
Dean huffs. “What? Another orchestra?”   
  
Bela smiles lazily up at him. “No, something more up your alley,” she says in her slow, hoity-toity accent. “You have a propensity for lewdness and I plan to give it to you. Bang a few gongs before the lights go out. You are always telling me the parties are dull.”   
  
He has no idea what she is talking about, which makes him nervous because if there is one thing he has come to fear it is that Bela can be unpredictable. “Hey, all I’m sayin’ is that it wouldn’t kill ya to have some beer.”   
  
Bela bursts out laughing until tears roll down her cheeks while he grins at her. “Oh, Dean. Only you could make a joke out of me dying.”   
  
He shrugs. “Just doin’ what I do.”   
  
“Well, thank you.” She grows serious and her eyes roam the room, over all of the people eating snails and fish eggs in their fancy clothes and sparkling diamonds, before coming back to Dean. “Seriously, thank you for not treating me like spun glass. Or like a money tree to milk. I know you come because of the dare, not from what you can get from--”   
  
They are interrupted, a few ladies showering Bela in praise and fake smiles. She takes them in stride, used to this lifestyle and these kinds of people. Part of Dean believes this is what she wants, what she likes, because it’s all she’s ever known. But she looks past the women, to Dean, and rolls her eyes.   
  
Dean leaves her to it and backs away, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Groups of people mill around in gowns and tuxes. It seems there are more and more people every party, everyone hoping to gain some amount of fortune when Bela’s illness takes her last breath. The joke is on them. If he knows Bela then he knows she’ll drown them in extravagance now but not leave any of them a damn penny. She’ll be laughing at them all from beyond the grave.   
  
Dean doesn’t know anyone here, most of them older generations from rich lineages, friends of her parents. Even though Bela gave Dean a tux to wear to her parties, because hell if he can afford one on his own, people seem to sense he’s not ‘one of them’ and he’s often snubbed.   
  
Every now and then he’ll play little mind games with people, offering up elaborately made-up stories about his life --while secretly pretending he isn’t from the wrong side of the tracks for a night-- but he isn’t in the mood tonight.   
  
Armed with a plate full of bland-looking pastes and crackers, Dean finds a somewhat secluded corner, vowing to stay until he witnesses whatever surprise Bela has up her thousand-dollar sleeves. And then he’s gonna vamoose. He’s so engrossed in trying to figure out if the grey stuff is whale or not when a voice startles him.   
  
“I know where you can get far better food than that.”   
  
Dean looks up at an amused face. A really amused, really handsome face. It’s the guy that Dean missing, usually turning up as Dean is leaving. “Am I that obviously grossed out? This shit is disgusting.”   
  
“Hmm,” the man says, squinting off at the people in the ballroom. “I would have to agree. Though the pastries are nice.”   
  
“So, uh, I’m Dean.”   
  
“Castiel.”   
  
Dean clears his throat, unsure what to do with his plate of hundred dollar poop-flavored pureed mush, not wanting to walk away to find a trashcan now that he’s finally gotten the attention of the man he’s been wanting to meet. So he holds onto it.   
  
“Nice to meet you, Cas. So you like coming to these things?” Dean asks, gesturing to the room before them. 

Cas’ blue eyes return to him and he leans against the wall, his crooked bowtie making Dean’s eye twitch to fix it. He’s got on a satiny purple one tonight, not appropriate for a black-tie event but dark enough someone might not notice at-a-glance. Not that Bela would care. “I come out of obligation for my family. I am not fond of such extravagance.”   
  
“Right? Gimme a beer and a pay-per-view with a couple of buddies any day.” Dean fiddles with his own tie like it’s choking him, for emphasis. “So you were saying you know where to get better food than this?”   
  
“Yes, a diner down by the old railroad tracks. I like to go down there and get a bacon cheeseburger from time-to-time.”  
  
Dean clasps his free hand over his heart and pretends like he’s going to pass out. “You had me at bacon.” Dean straightens up and looks down at his plate. “So you, uh, wanna ditch this party and show me this place?”   
  
Cas quirks a brow at him and for a few seconds Dean wonders if maybe he can see right through Dean, past the tux and silk tie and the styled hair… and see the beer-swilling, curses-like-a-sailor redneck underneath. Of course he wouldn’t want to give Dean the time of day…   
  
“Sure.”   
  
Dean’s eyes snap up to Cas’ face. “Really? Okay, awes--”   
  
A gong drowns out what Dean’s sentence, the clashing noise bouncing loudly off the walls in the opulent room. Bela was actually seriously when she said she wanted to bang gongs. The sudden noise was startling and Dean finds he had taken a large step close to Cas, his arm pressed to Cas’ side. Embarrassed he takes a small step out of his space, though Cas didn't seem to mind nor notice.   
  
A trio of belly dancers walk into the back of the room, in bejeweled bras and long silken skirts, strings of jingly silver-and-gold jewelry strung about their hips. Dean gets a sick pleasure in hearing the audible gasps from people and he looks across the expanse to see if he can find Bela and give her a thumbs-up.   
  
Music begins to play and the dancers begin an overtly sensual performance, while Cas and Dean watch some of the guests growing indignant at the style of dance, music and costumes. Whispers rise to overpower the music. Some people go so far as to leave. 

The trio of ladies disperse into the remaining crowd to dance against people and get them to dance along. Dean can see Bela now that the crowds have thinned out but she is looking at one of the dancers and pointing… toward Dean.   
  
Dean looks back over to find that the dancer with dark waves and light brown skin got Bela’s message and is making her way over to him. Cas looks at him in confusion when he backs up to the wall, shaking his head at her.   
  
A delicate hand alights against his chest while she continues to shake her thighs and hips. “Hi, sweetie. Bela said to give you a special, private performance. Why don’t you come with me?”   
  
Dean is gonna kill Bela. If she isn’t dead of natural causes after this then he’ll do it himself. He glares daggers across the room at her, where she is howling with laughter in her red chair.   
  
He’s about to tell the dancer that she has the wrong guy when she wraps a hand around his arm, trying to pull him away with her. “I don’t-- I’m not interested,” he says loudly. He pulls his arm away so forcefully from her weak grip that the food on his plate flies off and into Cas’ chest in a surprisingly splat. All three of them stop to stare at the mess.   
  
“Shit, I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says. Free from the woman’s grip Dean strides over to the nearest table to grab napkins and abandon his plate, Cas following from behind. They stand toe-to-toe and each start wiping pasty goo off of the tux. Dean is upset for being a clutz and probably ruining the man’s clothes.   
  
“It’s alright, Dean. We were leaving anyway, right?” Cas tips Dean’s chin up so their eyes meet. “And besides, I kind of wanted to get out of this tux.”  
  
Dean smiles even as he bites his lip, reaching up to finally straighten Cas’ bowtie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	9. In From the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weighted down with the devastating and imminent death of his horse, Dean takes her out for one last ride and gets caught in a storm. His closest shelter is the Novak's barn. Confident that they'll be safe there until the storm passes, Dean and Cherry hide out... but they aren't alone for long. (Modern setting AU.)
> 
> Promptober Word is: SCREECH  
> Rated: Explicit for sexual content.

He thought he could out-gallop the rain, but several acres out from his father’s land Dean knows he's gonna need to find shelter and fast.

He is lost deep within his distraught thoughts when he realizes, belatedly, that the land he is trespassing on is their neighbor’s estate, the Novaks. He's far closer to their barn than his own but the austere and frosty family doesn’t take too kindly to the Winchesters.

When the first drops of rain pelt his hair and mark dark patterns on Cherry’s hide, Dean makes his decision and steers his horse for a big red barn that looks like something outta Country Living and is four times the size his own.

The one good thing Dean has going for him right now is that the Novaks rarely step foot in the barn, leaving their stable hands to do the dirty work of saddling and caring for their horses. And the hired help are right on Dean’s social level, friends of the family, so they shouldn’t care if he pops in until the storm passes.

He spurs Cherry faster toward the Novak’s barn, kicking up earth as the sky darkens, and hops off of her water splattered back at the door. He muscles it open wide enough for them to slip inside right as a bright streak of light splits the dark grey sky.

“Hello?” Dean calls out. “Don't freak out, Rufus. Just me.” Dean walks in, leading Cherry to an empty stall and giving her some hay. After taking care of her he looks around the dimly lit first floor and calls out again but no one answers except the screech of an old barn owl, and the snorts and whinnies of the other horses.

He returns to his mare’s borrowed stall. “Guess nobody's home, old girl.” Dean strokes her auburn nose and hand-feeds her some oats from a nearby bucket.

The unexpected sound of the barn door sliding open startles Dean. The rain has picked up and a cool breeze blows in, exciting the horses who stomp their feet and whip their tails. He almost calls out a greeting, thinking it is one of the help, but chokes on the words when a man he doesn't recognize stumbles backward through the door. The man slides it shut, deadbolts it and pivots around.  
  
He doesn't see Dean right away but when he does he stops dead in his tracks. The two stare at each other in shock for a brief moment before the man straightens and brushes a hand down the front of his shirt, assuming a hard expression.

The man resumes his approach, rivulets of rainwater zigzagging down from his temples where dark hair is plastered by the water. His eyes remind Dean of a piece of cobalt Pyrex his mother used to have, one that was shattered in a drunken rage. He remembers cleaning up the shards, the light catching the sparkle of the deep, royal blue jagged sapphire-like glass.  
  
Dean glances at the door beyond him. Maybe he could leave Cherry here and just run home on foot. Rufus would mind her until Dean could sneak back.  
  
“Who are you?” the man snaps, coming almost nose-to-nose with Dean.  
  
“I-- uh, Dean. Winchester,” he stutters, caught within the steady gaze of what must be one of the members of the Novak family.  
  
“Winchester?” he asks and sounds surprised. “From the farm nearby?”  
  
Dean nods. “Look, I didn’t mean to-- I got caught in the rain and my horse-- storms scare her bad.”  
  
With a scowl and furrowed brow the man asks, “Why did you take her out then? Surely you have access to watch a weather report or have the sense to observe the sky.”  
  
Rebellion straightens Dean’s spine and he’s pleased to find he’s slightly taller than this stuck-up asshole. “I wanted to take her out one last time…” Dean falters and clears his throat. “I thought I’d make it back in time.”  
  
Something in the man’s expression softens. “My name is Castiel. One last time..?”  
  
“Dad’s having me put her down tomorrow.”  
  
“But why?” Castiel turns to the mare and lets her sniff and snort at his hand. “She does not appear sickly and I do not believe someone who cared for her, as you seem to do, would ride her if she were injured.”  
  
Dean is quiet. How do you tell someone, who probably rolls around naked in money, that not everybody can afford to keep such an expensive creature. His dad lost his job, making peanuts selling what little Dean and Sam manage to grow, drinking whatever is left after bills and groceries.  
  
Castiel turns back to look at him, the type of person who seems to be able to sustain a long amount of eye contact, and Dean shifts on his feet. Normally Dean isn’t able to do the same unless he’s really angry but he could easily lose himself in the open, honest gaze.  
  
The steady beat against the roof turns deafening and tells Dean that it’s torrential and he’d be soaked to the bone before he could take half a dozen steps.  
  
He hasn’t been kicked out yet, so that’s a plus. Maybe Castiel will let him stay for a bit. He decides to ask, “So where’s Rufus?” figuring they couldn’t just stand here and have a stare-off for an hour, or however long the storm lasts.  
  
“You know him?” When Dean nods Castiel smiles and leans against the door to Cherry’s stall, letting her suckle at and mess up his soaked hair. “He’s been relegated to the kitchen today, unluckily for him.”  
  
“How is that unlucky? He gets to be in that big, fancy mansion rather than out here with horseshit.”  
  
Castiel cocks his head and Dean’s horse nudges his neck, making him laugh as he reaches up to pet her. “Why would I come out here when I thought no one would be here, during what is rumored to be the worst rainstorm of spring? The animals are better company than my family.”  
  
Dean looks around the dim barn and realizes just how alone he is with this stranger, secluded and temporarily trapped. The scent of him is mixing with the dirt smell of rain, dry hay and cedar wood, the earthy natural scent of farm and livestock. With the overt and watchful eyes of Castiel roaming over Dean and the rain’s beat punctuated by rolls of thunder as deep as Cas’ voice, Dean can feel arousal stirring in him.  
  
The man is extremely good-looking but there is also something else about him, a goodness and warmth that he exudes. He doesn’t seem like the Novaks Dean has heard horror stories about. Maybe he’s the exception to the rule, coming out to escape them himself, giving a stranger shelter. Even now his attention is back on Dean’s mare, talking softly to her and feeding her more oats from the bucket.    
  
Something within Dean breaks and he confesses her imminent death, how he was unable to find someone to take her in since so many other families are struggling right now. He doesn’t know what he expects, maybe pity or indifference, but not righteous anger.  
  
“He cannot force you to do that, Dean. She has so much left to give.” After a pause he asks, “How much?”  
  
“What?” Dean breathes, thrown off-guard.  
  
“I will buy her. She can stay here.” Castiel strokes her and rubs his palm down her neck, nodding to himself like the decision is made and final. “You can ride her, care for her, and she’ll still be yours if-- if you want.”  
  
“Cas, that ain’t how it works. You don’t buy her and then let me keep her.” Dean hesitates. The money would be great but he couldn’t take money _and_ maintain the freedom to still practically own her. But maybe she could stay here. His father wouldn’t have to know; he thinks Dean is putting her down tomorrow anyhow.  
  
“Dean?” Cas asks softly. Dean had been staring holes into the floor as he warred with indecision. He looks up when black shoes step close to his, Cas coming close enough that Dean can feel his body heat. Hands cup Dean’s face and Cas brushes tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “She can stay here. There is no reason she has to die.”  
  
Unsure of what compels him --if it’s the proximity or the heady masculine scent of Cas that envelopes Dean, the warmth of his touch, or the unexpected kindness that just saved Cherry’s life-- but Dean’s hands close on Cas’ hips to pull him close as he crashes their lips together.  
  
Dean is about to pull away and apologize for his brazenness but Cas, still holding his face, leans in to chase it. Dean gives in to the retaliation and angles his head to go in deeper, lips parting and accepting. Cas’ hands glide back through Dean’s hair, one to cradle the crown of his head and the other to cup the back of his neck.  
  
The two melt into each other like their bones are lit wax, Dean palming sharp hipbones. He is spun around and pressed into the beam of a nearby, empty stall.  
  
Dean tugs Cas into the open V of his legs by belt loops, the bulge in Cas’ pants just missing Dean's erection. Dean shifts his body until their cocks are grinding and rubbing together. Cas groans deeply in the back of his throat and sucks Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth, letting it go with a pop.  
  
Lightning flashes and thunder rolls, the barn lights flickering off and on and off again until an automatic backup generators spurs to life and restores the power. Dean slips his hands down the back of Cas’ pants and squeezes, using the advantageous position to pull Cas into him to continue to rub their cocks through the straining fabrics.  
  
Cas is breathtaking, literally stealing the hot breath from Dean’s lips, drawing out little whimpers and low moans. Dean doesn’t know the last time he felt this alive and vibrant, or when his heart has beat so erratically. He can feel the tempestuous rush in his veins so strongly that his fingers feel electric, his body dizzy, weakening his knees until his legs tremble.  
  
And they haven’t done anything beyond devour one another’s mouths. Not a strip of clothing has been removed but Cas is apparently ready to remedy that, his hands slipping down Dean’s neck and biceps, pressing against his chest as they lower to roughly undo Dean’s pants.  
  
Dean stops rutting against him and pulls his hands out of Cas’ pants so he can unloop Cas’ belt buckle and slip the button free from its hole. The quick-zip sound of their zippers is lost to the soft neighs of the stabled horses and the downpour outside but Dean feels the vibration and shivers, breath hitching.  
  
It occurs to Dean seconds later that he’s got a hand wrapped around a  _stranger’s_ cock, and he doesn’t know how he got to this point but he doesn’t care. Cas just feels --and sounds, and tastes-- so fucking good. The way he almost growls, like an angry purr, when Dean’s hand gives a firm twist on the up-slide, his thumb passing over the slit to collect precome.  
  
And how Cas looks, with mussed hair and ruddy cheeks, serious but soft eyes. His cock is cut, the bulbous head smooth, the shaft pulsing and bunching within Dean’s fist as he pumps him. Dean sighs when his dick is freed from his pants only to be trapped within the sure fingers of Castiel, stroking and pumping him just rough enough that it sparks pleasure instead of pain.  
  
Dean throws his head back into the beam and can’t suppress the long moan that escapes. He drops his head back down to find Cas has a small smirk. He returns the same pressure he’s being given, matching Cas for speed and pulling Cas’ lips back with his free hand in damp hair to wipe the self-satisfied smile off of his face.  
  
Hand-jobs aren’t really Dean’s thing, especially dry, and it can take awhile to get off without the slick-wet heat of lube or at least some friggin’ lotion, but Cas’ passion and obscenely deep kisses are bringing Dean to the precipice and he’s about to nosedive right off into the deep-end.  
  
For the first time in many minutes Dean breaks away and finally speaks just one word, one syllable broken into two. “Ca--Cas.” He drops his head to Cas’ shoulder and grunts as he comes, Cas whispering into his hair something that sounds like, ‘beautiful noises’ and ‘just like that’.  
  
Dean takes shaky breath after shaky breath, his nerves jittery from the intense release. He lifts his head but rests his cheek against Cas’ cheek, pumping and twisting until Cas is spilling hot over the back of Dean’s hand.  
  
They tuck themselves away after taking a minute to catch their breath, forehead-to-forehead and eyes closed. Cas walks gingerly across the barn to grab a towel from a cabinet, returning to Dean with a shy smile. Dean watches him bite his delicious, swollen lip as Cas takes his hand and cleans him up before he wipes himself off.  
  
“Dean, I-- I don’t know--”  
  
“It’s okay, Cas. It’s… more than okay.” Dean smiles lazily, his dick already twitching with interest again. He lets Cas lead him to a pile of hay at the end of the barn so they can sit in the stiff poke of dried grass. “I’d, uh, love for Cherry to stay here so I can come visit her. And if it’s okay with you, if I can visit you again?”  
  
Cas smiles. “Of course, Dean.”  
  
_  
  
  
Exactly one year after Dean and Cas meet, Dean comes by to brush out Cherry’s mane and take her for a ride. It’s a gorgeous spring day so he isn’t surprised to find Rufus has the barn doors wide open, dust motes dancing in the entryway as Dean passes the threshold.  
  
Dean expects to find Cherry in her stall but the barn appears empty after he walks the length of it, the other horses put out to graze.  
  
Normally everyone leaves Dean to tend to Cherry unless he lets them know he can't come out. Thinking that maybe some wires got crossed, he turns around to go see if she was put out with the other horses when two dark silhouettes grace the barn entrance.  
  
“There she is,” Dean calls out cheerily, taking large strides to meet Cas and Cherry. “And there you are, handso--”  
  
Dean’s words trail off when Cas, holding onto Cherry’s lead, gets down on one knee. Dean skids to a halt and stares down at Cas, waiting with bated breath for either a proposal or a punchline.  
  
“I didn’t know, when I walked into this barn a year ago, that I’d be walking out on one family only to gain another. And as much as I love this barn and sneaking around,” Cas says with a fond smile, “I want to make a home with you. Dean, will you marry me?”  
  
“Get up here,” Dean says, his voice rough with emotion, taking Cas’ hand to pull him up. He crushes their chests in an embrace, kissing Cas as the salty brine of his tears slips between their lips. Dean pulls away and laughs lightly, sniffling. “You could’ve asked me that day a year ago and I might’ve said yes on the spot,” Dean jokes. “Best handjob I ever had.”  
  
Cas leans back in Dean’s arms, his laugh echoing around the walls of the barn. “Leave it to you to make a joke right now.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you love it,” Dean murmurs against Cas’ lips. “And in case you didn’t catch it, my answer is yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to leave this a cliffhanger, per usual, but I gave you all a little bit of 'what happens later'. I can see these two sneaking around for quickies in the hay, going out for milkshakes and movies, falling in love. *sigh* We just want our boys to be happy.
> 
> If you enjoy this story, and any others, please drop Kudos and Comments because I LURVE them so very much.
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	10. Losing My Religion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Within the steepled walls of the cathedral he is Castiel, but in the arms of the man he loves he is simply Cas. This is one story of a priest losing his religion for another. Basically an excuse for poetic (I hope) smut. Enjoy!
> 
> Promptober word of the day: GIGANTIC  
> Rating: Explicit for sexual content.

At night, when the candles burn dark cross-shaped ghosts against mahogany beams and benches, Castiel likes to stand shadowed in the back of the sanctuary watching as vows and prayers rise on the candle smoke. It is so dark and quiet that he can almost hear the sizzle of flames eating wicks, even from his distance.  
  
He’ll stare without blinking until his own eyes burn and tears pool, gazing up to blink until they slip down to drip off of his chin and onto his robes. The only evidence of his weeping quickly soaked by the dark fabrics, hiding in their dyes even as he hides himself in the dark.  
  
Suffocated tucked into the atramentous cloths and shadows, Castiel steps forward and carefully traverses down the middle aisle, golden-red color washing over him as he nears the altar.  
  
Jaw clenched, salty trails dried against his cheeks, he determines to make a choice. He sets trembling fingers to the buttons of his physical confinement until dark linen pools at his feet. Underneath that is more black: a button-down shirt and slacks with dull dress shoes. Even his belt is black, as though it mourns for all Castiel has forbade himself.  
  
Castiel pulls the only bit of white away, sliding his clerical collar off slowly and holding it in his hands. After one final look at it he blinks and drops it before the altar atop his priestly garments. He ignores the heavenly hosts painted in the domed cathedral ceiling, the only witnesses to his rebellion and as silent as the shadows.  
  
As he walks away he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt and untucks its hem from his pants but it  isn’t until he is outside, away from the sad, weeping candles with their flame-dances licking at golden sconces and jewel-colored stained glass, that he can finally breathe.  
  
He pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He’s had it charging all day after having let it die, forgotten in a drawer in his room, for several days. He turns it on now, head ducked as he passes under street lamps, his shoes slapping against post-rain soaked sidewalks.  
  
Twenty-one text messages, five voicemails.  
  
Castiel quickens his pace. He doesn’t have a car and the walk will take him at least forty minutes. The air is cold and slick, dead leaves clinging wet to his shoes, making his walk slippery. He takes the time to read through the messages that he desperately wants to ignore because he knows what he’ll find.  
  
  
_didnt see u yesteday_

_everything ok?_

_if u dont want to move in just tell me_

_please meet me on fri?_

_ok i can take a hint but can u at least reply so i know ur not dead_

  
  
Castiel’s heart constricts painfully the more he reads, the sadder and angrier the messages become. He can’t bear to listen to the voicemails, which surely follow a similar pattern of hurt, anger and then desperation. He pockets his phone and takes up a light jog.  
  
With only a few blocks left to go before he reaches the little house with the crooked shutter and empty bird bath, the damn leaves make good on their threats to trip him up. He falls hard on his palms and knees, pain jarring his kneecaps and bits of gravel imbedding themselves in tender flesh.  
  
Unperturbed and spurred on by only one word, one name, he jumps up and brushes himself off, ignoring the pain to limp as quickly as he can toward his destination.  
  
As soon as the little porch light comes into view Castiel breathes a sigh of relief but doubts and nervousness flutter up from his gut. He takes three painful steps up to stand before the door to wait without knocking.  
  
He could be turned away and, like a scorned dog with his tail tucked, return to the cathedral with her gigantic steeples looming above and pointing her patrons toward the sky…  
  
Or he could be wrapped in strong arms and given shelter within this humble dwelling, accepted and loved.  
  
He lifts up a fist and reverently taps his knuckles against the glass pane that is set within the solid oak, much more softly than he intended and without all of the manic desperation that carried him quickly to the doorstep.  
  
Even before the lock turns he can hear the shuffling beyond and his heart races. In shame, in penitence, in fear, Castiel bows his head as the door swings open. He’s assaulted first by the smell of whiskey and then by the sound of someone taking in a sharp breath of air.  
  
Nothing happens, not a word nor a motion. He tips his chin up and gazes upon the slack-jawed, glossy-eyed person before him who is shaking his head and white-knuckling a tumbler with a finger-width of golden-brown liquid that glitters under the porch-light.  
  
Castiel straightens his back and forces himself to meet verdant eyes that are swimming from too much drink or sorrow, or both. He waits for the verdict, expecting to be turned away but a small sliver of hope is still harbored in his heart or he wouldn't be here.    
  
“Cas?” the broken word falls from dry lips, cracking in the misused throat of the man before him.  
  
“Hello, Dean.”  
  
Rather than invite Castiel in, Dean comes out from within the warmth of his home and steps into Castiel’s space, looking at him like he’s a dream… or a nightmare.  
  
Dean swallows hard, glances at his tumbler and lowers it as if he should be the one ashamed. Castiel doesn’t spare it any attention and allows Dean to continue his inspection of Castiel from head-to-toe.  
  
“Wh--what happen’d to ya?” he slurs, he sways.  
  
Castiel instinctively lifts his hands to cup Dean’s elbows. Rather than pull away Dean leans into it, pushes closer, until their chests are pressed together and Castiel’s hands slide further around Dean to rest against his back in an embrace. The cold, hard glass of Dean’s cup and the flat, hot palm of his hand press firmly against Castiel’s back when the hug is returned.  
  
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says in a husky whisper. “I--”  
  
“Shhh,” Dean says, pulling back. He gestures for Cas to go inside and after only a brief hesitation, Cas steps into the light and out of the dark, with Dean close behind. The door shuts, the deadbolt clicks.  
  
Cas turns to Dean, the hard slam of the tumbler meeting the coffee table. The joy of his return is now shadowed by the hurt and anger Cas expected and knew would come.  
  
“I called,” Dean grinds out, grabbing two fistfulls of Cas’ shirt. Cas watches and waits, Dean’s pallor transforming from paleness to pinkened passion, the spattering of his freckles darkening in his ire.  
  
Just as quickly as the anger sparked does it die. “I texted you. I begged. I asked what I did wrong,” Dean mourns. “And you didn’t answer. You didn’t reply.”  
  
Cas puts his hands over the tight fists pulling his clothing hard and painfully taut. The gentle brush of his palms, fingers curling around Dean’s hands distracts Dean from his tirade. He lets go of the shirt and grabs the back of Cas’ hands, turning them over.  
  
In the brighter light of his living room Dean can see the torn palms with their dirt and rusty red.  
  
Cas is led to the kitchen sink, where bottles litter the counter and the evidence of Dean’s pain festers for anyone that he allows entrance to see. Dean makes quick work of vanquishing the trash to a black bag while Cas washes and dries his hands silently.  
  
He turns to Dean to find him staring at torn knees, eyes lifting up to Cas’ face as he battles in internal confusion. He has questions, pain, anger and even joy, all fighting for Dean's attention right under the surface of the carefully created facade that will come crumbling down…

Because Dean can’t hide behind it, not from Cas.  
  
“Dean, I made a mistake,” Cas begins, his confession rolling from his tongue as he explains his occupation to Dean’s wide-eyed surprise. “I was duty-bound and I began to feel guilty for all of the times we… well, for the past few months.”  
  
Cas considers Dean, watching him as his guard goes up and Dean steels himself for what he believes is inevitable rejection. “I realized,” Cas says, taking a step forward, “that my guilt was misplaced. What I thought was guilt for being with you was actually guilt for lying to myself about what, and who, I believe in.”  
  
There’s a miniscule twitch of Dean’s brow as it wrinkles together before smoothing back out, lips parting as the enormity of what Cas is saying comes to realization. Dean bridges the gap between them and looks Cas’ face over in question, for confirmation.  
  
“I won’t leave again, not if you do not want me to.”  
  
“So you left the church? You basically gave up your life for me?”  
  
Cas’ hands come to rest on Dean’s shoulders, pulling the astonished man into another embrace. Still cold, still trembling from nervous energy, Cas buries his nose against Dean’s neck and breathes in deep of smoke and stale liquor.  
  
“Why?” Dean whispers, tilting his chin up to give Cas more access in order to lavish his lip-puckered praises against Dean’s flesh. He presses his tongue to Dean’s collarbone before suctioning his lips and sucking a mark.  
  
“This is my sacrament,” Cas says admiring his work, moving his hands up to the back of Dean’s neck and straightening up for their lips to meet and part, awash in the baptism of each other’s mouths and tongues.  
  
They move to Dean’s room, relinquishing their clothes to the floor along the way in preparation to consecrate their bodies to one another. Cas lays Dean out on his back against the bed, a willing sacrifice upon the altar, a body Cas plans to worship until it is sweating, writhing and panting beneath him.  
  
Cas prepares Dean, whispering exaltations, before pushing inside and filling him up. Dean draws his legs around the back of Cas’ thighs and hooks his ankles when Cas is deep within. They are wrapped around one another and move as one, rolling hips and deep thrusts, slowly, in reverent acclaim. Cas wants to draw it out and take his time, Dean clenching around him beautifully, moaning extolments, grunting in pleasure.  
  
Nipples roll between Cas’ fingers until Dean’s breath hitches, as he licks the salty sweat clear up from navel to the dip of Dean’s throat. While he sucks another bruise against pale flesh, Dean’s blunt nails dig into Cas’ back, dragging up to make angry red lines.  
  
In retaliation for the blessed marks, Cas licks a sinful kiss against Dean’s mouth, their tongues stroking one another and driving Cas to pound into Dean harder and faster.  
  
Dean’s digging and kneading fingers become desperate, clinging to any part of Cas he can hold onto until he finds and clutches at Cas’ ass to pull Cas into him again and again, urging him deeper.  
  
Cas can feel the cuts and gashes on his knees, from his earlier fall, splitting and spilling blood, the pain adding a delicate bit of punishment for his transgressions against Dean. The blood will stain the bed sheet, and beneath that, the mattress. Every time he sees it, Cas will be reminded of this holy communion of whiskey-flavored kisses, sticky skin-on-skin and repentance-driven blood. He will be reminded of his choice to be with the man he know he loves rather than having continued on in blind faith.  
  
Looking down at the wrecked, broken man beneath him, panting and praying Cas’ name as Dean washes their chests in white, Cas tips over with him. He rolls out every last drop with stuttering hips before coming away to rest against Dean, to rest his ear where Dean’s heart lay below flesh and bone, listening to the quickbeat rhythm of his new religion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all thought I was going to use GIGANTIC in another way, didn't you?! Kinky bastards.
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	11. Repelled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel, what one would consider a late bloomer, finds out he's an omega in an alpha household. His brothers are vicious enough that Castiel decides to run away, stupidly cutting through the woods. He gets lost but the only person around for miles is the Alpha who is scenting him... just as Castiel goes into unexpected heat.
> 
> Alpha-Beta-Omega Dynamics.  
> Threats of rape (not between Cas and Dean). No actual rape.  
> Castiel is 18 in this and Dean is actually older at 23.
> 
> Promptober word is: RUN  
> Rated: Mature

It wasn't supposed to be like this and yet he knows it is all his fault. Castiel clutches his stomach and squints up at the canopy above. If the sun rises in the west, --no, east-- then he should go to the right.

After walking for about an hour, up and over felled trees and trying to make his way back home, Castiel stops. The sun has started to tick it's afternoon descent in the opposite direction that he needed to go in and Castiel whimpers in frustration, turning once again with the sun on his left.

Castiel just presented, and really late at 18, only to be ridiculed when his family found out he's an Omega, and not the Alpha they all had assumed. He had run away because he's so sick of his pig-headed Alpha brothers, Bart and Luc. More than one time they've threatened to let their friends have their way with Castiel.  
  
But yesterday they had actually tied him up in their private backyard. left him to stress about the possibility of being raped when they called out they'd be back with some buddies.  
  
Thankfully, Castiel's father found him but the lecture that his brothers got only made the glints of determination in their eyes sharper. They were going to gun for him. He had to run away.

Ducking his head in shame, even clear out here where no one can see, Cas continues on in what he hopes is the right direction. 

With his arms tucked tight to his body he presses on for another hour until he smells fire. No, not fire. It’s more smoky and complex. He stops to sniff, tilting his head as he picks apart each layer of this scent. It’s not a chimney or campfire.  
  
Within the hickory smoke is the musty aroma of old leather and the bite of clove.  
  
As if his legs have minds of their own and forget that Castiel is supposed to be finding a way out of the woods, Castiel turns and follows the unique scent, a flash of heat filling his veins and making him shudder in the cool air.   
  
He clears two more trees and stops when he sees a man in the near distance, with an arm full of branches, sniffing the air in confusion and turning in a slow circle.  
  
Castiel can’t move. In wide-eyed horror, more heat flashes through him until he’s shaking, like a leaf that’s desperately clinging to a tree branch, not wanting to be thrown by the wind to the unknown below.  
  
Castiel holds out a hand to his side to brace his weight against a tree. The man comes full-circle in his test of the air and as he takes a big deep breath his eyes lock onto Castiel.  
  
Fuck. This cannot be happening.  
  
Suppressants don’t wear off in half a day, or however long he’s been wandering these woods trying to find his way out. And here he is, going into heat while a stranger is obviously sniffing him from afar. But that’s can’t be right either. He’s wearing the best blockers money can buy.  
  
Fear ices over his heat-filled veins. He tells his feet to take a slow step back.  
  
_Don’t run. Don’t walk fast. Don’t get chased._  
  
Instead his feet take a step forward and the man, frozen to the spot and clutching his tree branches tightly to his chest, looks terrified. He’s wearing dark jeans and an open flannel over a t-shirt. The red-and-black checkered fabric stands out bright in the low-light of the heavily tree-covered shade.  
  
“You really shouldn’t be here,” the man says desperately. “Omega. It isn’t safe.”  
  
That is most definitely true, and right now Castiel knows he’s probably least safe with this Alpha scenting him, but this is the only person who could possibly help. “I’m lost,” Castiel says quietly. “Could you just point me North?”  
  
The man frowns and tightens his grip, taking a few slow steps toward Castiel. Now a few feet away Castiel can see his Adam’s apple bob several times and hear the low and constant rumble of a frustrated growl. The man is breathing hard, eyes closed as he carefully sniffs. “I’m sorry, you really need to go. Uh,” the man opens glazed eyes and looks up, “that way.”  
  
Castiel finally manages a shaky step back and slick wets the back of his pants. Panting and whimpering in frustration at his predicament Castiel takes another step back even as his body screams at him to knock the stupid twigs out of that Alpha’s arms and let the stranger knot him.  
  
Aroused but frightened, he continues his slow escape.  
  
_Don’t run. Don’t walk fast. Don’t get chased._  
  
As soon as the Alpha is good and out of his sight, Castiel turns and runs.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
Dean has a great stack of firewood built up already but he likes to keep a large pile of branches as well, for outdoor fires in the campfire pit. Out here in the woods the supply is seemingly endless but he ventures out further out from his cabin than normal today.  
  
He’s got just enough to return to his home when he catches a sweet scent, there and gone on a breeze that teases by him. He puts a boot up on a fallen log to walk over when he stops, tilting his head up to sniff. The scent is back and getting stronger. He pushes off the log and turns in a slow circle, brow furrowed as he tries to dissect it.  
  
It’s smells like… spiced vanilla… over crisp apples.  
  
It is the most divine aroma Dean has ever scented. It makes his head feel warm and dizzy at the same time. He lowers his gaze and stiffens at the sight of a man holding a hand out against a tree to steady himself. Dean is about to call out to see if he needs help when the scent slams into him, consumes his senses and almost takes control of his human faculties.  
  
That magical scent is from that Omega, who is flushing red with heat and trembling.  
  
Fuck. This cannot be happening.

Instead of doing the smart thing and walking away from Dean the Omega takes a step forward. Dean clutches his branches tighter as despair coats him like an ugly, dark shroud. He can scent the Omega’s fear under his sweet smell so why is he coming closer?  
  
“You really shouldn’t be here,” Dean says. And then, to let the man know that he knows, he calls him by his social station. “Omega. It isn’t safe here.”  
  
And it isn’t safe here. It isn’t safe with Dean because he is broken. He came out here to live hidden away, tucked apart from the world. Even as everything in him fights to go into instinctual autopilot and he can feel the strain and power of a helpless rut, his thoughts urge him to care for this Omega.  
  
_Don’t chase. Don’t claim. Protect him._  
  
“I’m lost,” the man’s voice rustles across the distance that is both too far and too close. “Could you just point me North?”  
  
The powerful itch to protect this Omega becomes even more intense knowing that he is lost. Dean can’t prevent himself from stepping closer and as he does so he closes his eyes against the onslaught of feelings, panting to catch his breath and breathe like a normal fucking person. He doesn’t want to scare the Omega.  
  
The Omega’s scent is even stronger this close and Dean could get lost in it, lost in the slick-hot heat, locked together to curb the craving of each other…  
  
Dean realizes he’s growling softly and stops, and making an effort to stop sniffing in the direction of the stranger like an undomesticated beast. “I’m sorry, you really need to go. Uh,” Dean says, opening his eyes and looking toward the sky for the sun’s position, “that way.” He points out the direction the Omega needs to go.  
  
He doesn’t want the Omega to leave. He half-hopes that the Omega will keep coming toward him like he had. But when the Omega starts taking slow steps backward, stumbling over uneven terrain even as he keeps bright azure eyes locked onto him, Dean feels like his heart is breaking.  
  
_Don’t chase. Don’t claim. Protect him._  
  
And the best thing Dean can do to protect him… is to let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shall dub myself Queen of the Cliffhangers.
> 
> I feel kinda bad about this one because we all know what happens when an Alpha and Omega have a bond and reject one another. Painful, ill times ahead for 'em. Because it appears our boys don't realize they just scent-bonded.
> 
> More to come for this story, I think!
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	12. Saturday Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean loves his Saturday mornings but he'll gladly give them up for a special someone.
> 
> Promptober inspirational word: SHATTERED  
> Rated: Teen+

Dean loves his Saturday morning vibes, especially in the summer. There’s no alarm clock to snatch him from his dreams and force him into a suit, there’s no shock of a morning shower and rush to get out the door. He can snuggle under his comforter and get up whenever he wants.   
  
If he wants to binge Netflix all day, or spend a day out on the lake with a fishing rod, he can. The day is full of possibility and, from the look of the sky beyond his window, today is going to be spent outside.   
  
With mussed up hair and soft flannel pajama bottoms, Dean pads into the kitchen and grabs a coffee mug. It’s his favorite, a flea market find, that is stamped with honeycomb and painted a mustard yellow. The coffee pot has dark brew—already hot and waiting for him—to stimulate him to wakefulness.   
  
He closes his eyes and relishes in the first scorching gulps before leaning over the sink to look out the kitchen window. He can make out a wide-brim sunhat in front of one of the garden beds and smiles, watching as long fingers carefully pull out weeds and tend to plants.   
  
Dean plans to stand there and watch for a bit, at least until he’s done with his coffee, but the shrill ring of the landline phone pierces the silence. He steps over to pick it up, wondering who could be calling at --he glances at the clock on the microwave-- ten in the morning on a Saturday. Okay, so not as early as he thought…   
  
“‘Lo? Winchester residence,” he says, voice still sleep-gruff, just as the door to the backyard slides open and Cas steps inside.   
  
As Dean listens to the person on the other end, he tenses up and goes stock-still, the mug slipping from his fingers and shattering at his feet. He’s barely aware of hot coffee splashing across his bare skin.   
  
“Dean?” Cas asks in alarm, stepping forward, ceramic crunching beneath his shoes. Dean reaches out and grabs Cas’ shirt, just to have something to hold onto and to keep himself from slumping to the floor.   
  
He turns glistening eyes to Cas’ concerned ones as he continues to listen to the woman give him instructions over the phone. He knows Cas is wondering what the fuck is going on but Dean needs to wrap up this conversation and then they need to get dressed and grab their bags and get in the car and…   
  
“Yes,” he says breathlessly into the receiver. “We’ll be there right away.”   
  
He drops the phone to the counter with a clatter, still clutching Cas’ sweaty shirt in one fist when Dean turns to face him. He lets go just so he can grab Cas’ face and laugh, the tailend hitching on a sob. Dean pulls Cas’ face in for a chaste kiss before pressing several kisses against Cas’ scruffy cheeks and dirt-smeared forehead .   
  
“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Cas asks, bewildered.   
  
“A kid, Cas. There’s a four-year-old and they--” Dean breaks off and switches gears, talking in an excited rush. “That was the agency. We need to go. They’re waiting on us.”   
  
Dean can tell when Cas’ brain finally catches up because his lips part in surprise, fingers digging into Dean’s upper arms. Cas laughs in a sort of broken gasp and his eyes become glassy with unshed tears.  

“Wait,” Cas says in a daze, blue eyes dropping to the floor. “Don’t move. We need to sweep this up,”   
  
Dean looks down at his bare feet and at the numerous shards of broken mug that have spread clear across the kitchen from impact.   
  
“Looks like you’re gonna have to give me a piggy back ride outta here so I can get some shoes on,” Dean says. The last thing he wants to do is get held up because he stupidly cuts his feet open.

Without protest, Cas turns around and bends his knees so that Dean can hop on.   
  
The moment Cas sets him down in their carpeted family room Dean pulls Cas around and kisses him. “We’re gonna be parents,” he whispers excitedly before they both take off in different directions, rushing to get ready to go so that they can meet their son.   
  
Their Saturdays will never be the same again. They'll be even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure what kind of job Dean has but he wears suits. But Cas gardens and makes pottery. I love businessman Dean with artistic Cas so so much; that whole opposites attract thing gives me all the tingly feelings.
> 
> Of course this is an incomplete story, like so many others in this series. I knew when I saw the inspirational word of the day that I could go really angsty and sad, but I decided to do something happy because...  
> TODAY IS SEASON 13 PREMIERE AND IT'S A GOOD DAY!!!
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	13. Just the Way You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: "I work at a flower shop and you're a tattoo artist from across the street and you always come in here to practice drawing flowers... and you're really hot."
> 
> Promptober word of the day is TEEMING.  
> Rating: Mature (bullying)

“I’ve got the Henderson’s wedding order ready, Castiel,” Hannah says, coming to the storefront. “I’m going to leave in about thirty to take them down to the chapel.”  
  
Castiel glances up from his order form, pushing up the left sleeve of his sweater that refuses to stay up. “Thank you, Hannah. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She beams at him, fiddling with the flower pot next to the register that is filled with silk blossoms affixed to pens.

Castiel marks something down on his form, absently informing her of his own agenda for the day. “I have three appointments today. Two more weddings and a prom committee.”  
  
Hannah laughs. “‘Tis the season. Gosh, do you remember your prom?” Hannah leans on the counter and bats her big, blue eyes.  
  
“I wasn’t what you would consider prom material, I guess. I didn’t go to prom.” High school was not that long ago but it has been long enough for Castiel to believe that he shouldn’t still harbor a lot of the pain. But it's still a sore spot.  
  
Hannah pushes away from the counter, pity marring her pretty face. He has no doubt she was liked by many and had a place to belong in school. “Well, look at you now. Successful business owner, doing what he loves. You're making many brides and grooms, and so many others, really happy.”  
  
The bell over the door jingles and they both straighten up. Hannah walks over to the cooler to busy herself with the task of pulling wilting bouquets that will end up in the discount bin or left for drying. Castiel doesn’t like to waste and tries to salvage as much as he can by making dried teas, potpourri, and even natural pharmaceuticals.  
  
“Hello, welcome to The Flower Pot…” Cas’ voice trails off when the customer steps further into the shop, looking around with one arm hooked around a small sketch book. It’s the man who owns the shop across the street. The same guy Castiel has envied and admired from afar.  
  
He is wearing a black-t-shirt that hugs his biceps and what skin is visible is covered in a kaleidoscope of vibrant color. He’s still walking toward the counter, while looking at the many buckets around the shop that are teeming with flowers. A few steps from the counter he fixes his eyes on Castiel, licks his lips and smiles wide.  
  
“Uh, hey. So I’m Dean. We’re kinda neighbors.” Dean gestures with the sketchbook that he’s holding against his forearm and he seems a little unsure but takes a deep breath. “I am a tattoo artist.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, I know,” Castiel says stupidly. “I mean, I’ve seen you. Across the street.” Castiel reproaches himself. He is always putting his foot in his mouth and he just gave the man this idea that he’s probably some voyeur or stalker.  
  
But Dean chuckles. “Yeah, I’ve seen you around, too.” He clears his throat. “So I was wondering if maybe I could hang out here for a little bit? I need to practice sketching flowers and I thought maybe I could--”  
  
“Of course,” Castiel interrupts.  
  
“Really? Awesome, thanks.”  
  
“I’m Castiel, by the way, and you’re welcome to use one of the tables over there. I do have some appointments today but if you have questions in the meantime, just let me know.”  
  
Dean gives him another striking smile and picks the table near the window, pulling out a pencil pouch from the back of one of his jean pockets while he nods a greeting to Hannah.  
  
“Well, it looks like I should load up the van. Is there anything you need while I’m out, Castiel?” Hannah asks, watching Castiel closely and frowning a little.  
  
He breaks his eyes away from the tattoo-covered arms he was looking at. There is so much detail, so many little things to search for and trace with his eyes. He’s never seen Dean this close before and Castiel is fairly certain he could get lost looking over his body… wait, what was Hannah saying?  
  
“Uh, yes, thank you.”  
  
“So... you’re good?” she asks slowly. “I asked if you needed anything.”  
  
“Oh, no. I’m fine. I brought lunch today. My ten o’clock will be here momentarily so I need to get ready for that.” A little flustered, Castiel puts his order form away and clears off the counter. He needs to find his portfolio and a grab an order form.

Castiel chooses a table where he’s not exactly facing Dean but he doesn’t have his back to him either. He lays out his portfolio, a pricing sheet, a couple of pens neatly, his OCD obvious. He glances up at Dean who is watching Castiel's hands move the papers just right so that everything lines up perfectly. The corner of Dean's lip twitches in a small smile as he returns his attention back to glancing between his sketchbook and up at a bucket filled with Hydrangeas.  
  
Castiel isn’t sure how someone could tattoo something as detailed and as elaborate as Hydrangea but, then again, he doesn’t know much about tattoos. While he doesn’t think he’d ever get one he is mesmerized by those who choose to express themselves as living canvas.  
  
The bell jingles over the door again and Castiel turns to greet his arrivals, the words caught in his throat when he recognizes the groom as one of the worst bullies he has ever had the misfortune to know. The appointment was made in the bride's name only or he wouldn't have agreed to this.  
  
“Castiel,” Bartholomew bellows cheerily, recognizing Castiel as well.  
  
Castiel winces and then tries to recover, hoping no one noticed. “Bart. And you must be Anna.” He smiles at the red-headed woman and takes the bride’s hand, turning her toward the table, effectively avoiding shaking Bart's hand.  
  
“I’m going to have you two sit down together and go over this survey. There’s a little bit of information I need from you to help you select the perfect flowers for your wedding party and bouquet.”  
  
“Hey, Castiel," Bart says, sitting down and scooting his chair in, "remember that time my buddies and I stole all your clothes during that overnight thing? What was that again? Some Cub Scout shit my parents made me go to.”  
  
Castiel smiles tightly. “I remember. If you will excuse me a moment? I forgot something in the back.” Castiel quickly makes his escape to take a deep breath and  _not_ think about the humiliating circumstances Bart has put him in on numerous occasion.  
  
After a pep talk that includes Castiel telling himself to be the bigger person and be the professional, he walks back out to find Bart looking at Dean with barely concealed disdain. Castiel clears his throat, pulls out a chair and sits down across from his clients, drawing Bart’s sneer to him.  
  
“I’m going to need to cut this appointment short and I won’t be able to help you with your wedding. I don’t feel I am the best florist for you but I can recommend a couple of others.”  
  
After the couple sputter for a few seconds Bart’s skin flushes red with anger. “You fucker! You’ve always been a waste of fucking space. And now you’ve just wasted our morning. I’ll be sure to leave reviews everywhere.” Bart gets up and pulls his stunned bride up next to him. “I’ll ruin you, you bitch.”  
  
On his way to the door Bart knocks over a couple of potted orchids, spilling moist dirt across the floor and crushing the precious petals, snapping the stem of the largest one. Even Anna yelps and scolds him.  
  
This is not how Castiel does business and he avoids drama at almost any cost. But he can not bear to be at the mercy of Bartholomew, nor take his money. He knows that no matter what he did to make the flowers perfect for this wedding, Castiel would end up hurt and abused by Bart because there is no pleasing him. He'd find fault with something, at some point.  
  
Castiel flinches when the shop’s door slams, glass rattling. He hates the tickle behind his eyes, his vision swimming as he gathers up the papers and album from the table, not daring to look at Dean, who is quietly sitting at his table.  
  
Castiel goes into the back to grab a broom and dustpan, and is just starting to sweep the floor when Hannah returns.  
  
She gasps and gingerly steps around the mess. “What happened?”  
  
Despite the teary eyes Castiel stands tall and lifts his chin. “I declined working with a couple.”  
  
“You did what? Why on earth would you do that, Castiel?”  
  
Castiel explains how he knows the groom. “He’s an asshole. I don’t care if he tormented me five minutes or fifteen years ago. If he had been repentant and had grown up then maybe I’d have had no issue but…”  
  
“You’re going to lose money. You heard him! He wants to ruin your business and he’s going to plaster your name everywhere, and not in a good way.”  
  
A little bit of doubt creeps in and Castiel bites his lip, second-guessing his choice. But he won’t be a victim and he won’t put himself in a position to be one. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Hannah,” he finally says. He sweeps his arm around the shop. “I didn’t build this shop for Bart. Or anyone else. I built this shop for me.”  
  
Hannah crosses her arms. “You can’t afford to think like that. A business is still a business and you rely on everyone else to keep money flowing in to maintain it.”  
  
Castiel finally chances a glance at Dean who is lounging in his chair and watching them unabashedly. “I think it would be best to not have this conversation right now.”  
  
Hannah huffs and storms off to the back of the shop to cool off.  
  
Dean's deep drawl invades Castiel's thoughts. “Your wife has some valid points--”   
  
“Not my wife,” Castiel bites out, aggressively sweeping the floor.  
  
“Okay, girlfriend?”  
  
Castiel shakes his head, reaching down to cradle one of the destroyed plants.  
  
“Well your employee then. A business  _is_ a business, but you also have the right to turn away anyone you’re uncomfortable with. You know how many fuckers I turn away in a night?”  
  
Castiel looks up at Dean and back down at the white orchid. “Yes, well… I can imagine.” Castiel hesitates, fingers brushing the velvet-soft petals. “Dean? I need to apologize. This is not a typical circumstance and it was incredibly embarrassing, and I’m sure awkward for you.”  
  
“Nah, don’t sweat it, Cas. I’ve seen worse. And,” Dean says, unfolding himself from his seat lithely, “you should be proud. You kicked ass.”  
  
Castiel scoffs but can’t help smiling a little. He holds the plant up and shrugs. “Would you like some fresh orchid tea? I’d hate for a special, and expensive,” Castiel sighs, “flower to go to waste.”  
  
“Is that something you can do?” Dean asks and Castiel nods. “Wow, that’s cool. Hell yeah, I’d love some flower tea.”  
  
Castiel beckons Dean to follow him into the back where he finds Hannah and sends her out to manage the register.  
  
“I’d really love to hear about your shop,” Castiel says, looking up from a kettle that he’s filled with water in the breakroom kitchen. “And about all of your tattoos.”  
  
Dean grins and rubs at the back of his neck, the motion of his arm creating a rainbow flash of color. “You know, you’d look really freaking hot with some tattoos of your own. If you ever wanted one...”  
  
Castiel laughs and shakes his head.  
  
“Nah, you know what?” Dean leans against the wall next to the doorway and looks Cas up-and-down, watching him as he makes tea and pushes up the left sleeve of his sweater. “You’re fine just the way you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really fun story to write because I haven't published many AU's. Along the vein of something I said on another fic: I love it when the boys are obvious opposites in things they do or in their appearance, but they relate to one another on a deep level. Both of them are outcasts, both are business owners who need to let abusive customers go on their way.
> 
> Hannah has a crush on Cas here but instead of listening to him or trying to understand his position or empathize with him, she kind of went "emotionless angel: do the mission" on him (if this was canon).
> 
> I envision Cas having a sign in his window that also says that his shop is a LGBT+ friendly and safe space, which is one reason that drew Dean to his shop.
> 
> If I wrote this as a longer story I would draw it out more, the pining between Dean and Cas, where Dean comes to the shop to quietly work and they don't really say much to each other for awhile. AND I want Dean to secretly draw Cas after some time. His specialty is actually portraits; which is why Dean is trying to work on his flower sketches. I also want more flower symbolism and Cas gifting Dean meaningful flowers, here and there, at some point.
> 
> It'd be the fluffiest fluff to fluff. But alas, this has to suffice for now. :-)
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	14. I Will Have You, Cursed or Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is intent on protecting his loved ones by finding and slaying the supposed dragon that lurks outside of his village. Dragging his friend out with him on a scouting mission is dangerous enough until that friend turns out to be the very beast Dean seeks to find and kill.
> 
> Promptober word of the day is FIERCE.  
> Rated: Teen+

“Come along, Cas, keep up,” Dean calls to his friend, swatting a branch out of his path. “If anyone is going to catch the beast, it is us.”

Dean glances over his shoulder at Cas, who is biting his lip hard in concentration. “I do not think you-- we should be doing this. A few sword lessons does not make you equipped to--”

“Aw, just admit you are scared, Cas.” Dean laughs and picks up the pace, his leather boots almost silent in his stealth, even if his mouth won’t be silent. “The cave is not far from here. I am betting that that is where it dwells.”

“Dean,” Cas says and he stops walking. Dean sighs loudly in frustration, stops and turns around, hands on his hips in preparation to hear what Cas has to say. “I think we should go back. Now. It is nearly time that I must depart.”

Dean observes his friend’s restless fidgeting. Cas' eyes scan the trees and skies, his fingers of one hand tapping against his sword, the others picking at the hem of his shirt.

Cas is leaving for his monthly trade with neighboring villages by nightfall, so they are merely scouting the area. They will hunt together later when Cas has returned.

But they are already so close that they should at least confirm the location of the cave mouth before they head back. “We will not go inside. I merely wish to make certain the cave is where I was told it would be. We will be back to the village in plenty of time.”

“I do not understand why you feel the need to find the creature,” Cas says quietly after they have resumed walking. “From what I hear, and know, he has not hurt anyone.”

“Because,” Dean says in exasperation. “I am a hunter. That thing is not human and it has the potential to be a threat. The other men do not believe the rumors as we do so we must take action.”

“Why? To prove your worth?" Cas asks and Dean can almost hear him wrinkling his nose. "To whom?”

Dean stiffens and looks off to the distant trees, even though Cas is behind him and cannot see his face. He is unsure how to answer. He merely wishes to protect the town, his family, and... Cas…

“This thing,” Dean spits the word, “gives children nightmares and makes women weep in fear that it could pick off their husbands and sons. It has been hiding amongst us for far too long. If the other men will not take care of it, then we will. It is as simple as that.”

Satisfied with his reasoning, Dean moves more confidently and boldly, quickening his pace again.

“Dean, slow down,” Cas says, his voice sounding further away than the last time he spoke. “You need to be careful. There is a deep hole not far ahead of you.”

But Dean hears him too late, stepping into a pocket of earth that trips him and brings him down to the ground onto rocks, sticks and other woodland debris.

“Dean! Are you alright?” Cas says, rushing forward. He crouches before Dean and takes his hands to look them over but they are only dirty.

“I am fine, if only slightly mortified. Help me rise.” Dean holds up his arm and they clasp each other's forearms, Cas pulling Dean toward him.

As soon as he is on his feet Dean’s weight comes down on his left ankle and he stumbles, gasping in pain. Cas, still in his space, instantly reaches out to keep him from falling.

“I do not think I can walk,” Dean mourns. He sits down hard on his butt, pulling out of Cas’ grip. He punches the earth next to him. “Some dragon hunter I am. I simply trip and am rendered useless.”

Cas stands and looms above Dean, looking around the woods. He appears agitated, his breathing becoming slightly labored as though upset.

“Cas, what is it? What is wrong?”

Fear-filled eyes look down and away. “We really cannot be here. I do not think I can get you home before dark, not like this." Cas looks toward the heavens. "I should not have come... but I could not let you wander the woods alone. I knew you would come without me. Sometimes you are so... stubborn,” Cas grits out.

Dean looks around at the dimming scene before them, at the hole that tripped him and back up at Cas. “How did you know about the uneven earth here?”

“Dean,” Cas says desperately. “I need you to listen to me. I cannot get you back to town in time with your injury…”

“Is this about your travels?” Dean tests his ankle, pulling his pant leg up to observe the swelling flesh. “I apologize for delaying you, but one day cannot make that much difference, can it?”

“This is my livelihood. I must go, every month at the same time.” Cas begins to pace in short steps, back and forth, like a caged animal. “Dean,” Cas says quietly, mournfully. He is always saying Dean’s name as a punctuation or warning of what will next be said.

“Cas, how did you know about the hole? Have you been hunting the dragon in secret? Have you been this way before? You know it is forbidden to come this way, especially alone.” Dean is all at once angry and hurt.

“No. And yes.”

Agitated, with his injury and the obvious mistrust of his sneaky friend, Dean snaps. “Out with it, Cas. What have you been doing?”

Instead of answering Cas stops his manic pacing and holds extremely still, squinting off to the distance. “The cave is here and I can get you that far for the night and then I must go. It is already too late for me.” He shakes his head and presses his lips together tightly, displeased and yet sorrowful.

“You are going to leave me here? In the dragon’s lair?”

Cas looks back down at Dean imploringly, blue eyes shining. If Dean did not know better he would say Cas appears heartbroken with some decision he has made. “Please, Dean. I promise you will be safe. Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” Dean says without hesitation. “But that does not mean I wish to be left here while injured. Come, we can start heading to the village now. You should only be a half a day late for your travels.”

Dean holds his arm up for Cas to help him up again but Cas doesn't move. Instead he stands there, searching Dean’s eyes, glancing at his sheathed sword and back up.

“Are you quite serious about trusting me with your life?” Cas asks softly. He licks his lips and continues, “I will not let anything happen to you.”

“Yes, alright.” Dean waves the arm he's still holding up and Cas helps him to his feet, slipping an arm around Dean’s waist and beginning the torturously slow walk to where there should be a cave instead of toward home.

“I will stay with you at the cave. Come nightfall I will have the strength to get you to the village edge. And then I want you to forget me.”

Panic fills Dean’s chest like ice. “What are you saying?”

“I won't be able to speak soon. So I am telling you now to please trust me. Believe me when I say I would never hurt you.” Cas tightens the grip he has on Dean’s hip. “I will see you get as close to home as possible and then I will disappear.”

Dean stops abruptly and limps his way out of Cas’ arm, bracing himself against a tree. “You are speaking in riddles. I do not like this game, Castiel.”

“It is not a riddle. I do not know what else to do. The village is too far to walk. You do not wish to be left here alone. The only other thing I can do is stay and…” Cas looks away.

“And what?”

With a deep breath Cas says, “And let you see the monster that I am, that you wish to kill.”

Dean digs his fingers into the rough bark of the tree. Something flashes in Cas’ eyes, like a light, but there is no source for it. No fire and the sun is still descending behind Cas’ shoulder.

He cannot explain it but Dean knows, deep in his bones, what Cas is going to say next and he braces himself, one hand against the tree and the other coming to grip his sword.

Cas looks down at the movement and sighs, sadness wrinkling his brow. “Dean, I am the dragon.”

“No,” Dean whispers, his lips barely moving as the word slips out into the evening air. He shakes his head even as he believes it. “No, Cas,” he says louder, and this time it is his heart breaking. He cannot be in love with… with… a monster.

“I was cursed," Cas says. "I do not leave to trade for three days. I leave to come here and hide.” Cas relaxes on his feet and bows his head. “Perhaps it is for the best I keep moving, now that I know people --that you-- will be looking to have my head.

“I used to move every few years. Village to village. Never staying long enough for anyone to find my caves or to notice that I do not age.

“But then I came here,” Cas says, lifting his head and his gaze. Dean sees that flash again, like a cat’s eyes reflecting in the dark. “And I found you. I could not leave. I should have at least a year or more ago.”

Cas looks up and blinks several times, swiping a hand across his face and sniffling loudly. “When I change I am still me. I cannot speak and I may have some… instinctual tendencies. But I will recognize you and protect you with my life. Do you understand?”

Dean nods dumbly, still trying to process how he should feel, how to react to this news. He has never seen a dragon and his heart races with fear. Cas says he will protect him but what if instinct tells Cas that Dean would make a nice snack…

“I do not harm people,” Cas says, cocking his head a little as he watches Dean. He seems to be less upset now that his secret has been revealed.

“I like to fly,” Cas continues, squinting up at the inky blue-black sky through the leaves. “But otherwise I stay close to the cave and away from the villagers. Come dawn I am in human form. Three nights I change: the night before the full moon, the night of and the night after.”

The gravity of how much trust Cas is placing with Dean, to confide his life-and-death secret, takes Dean’s breath away. Cas knew Dean had wanted to hunt him, that he could get the villagers to hunt him. He is laying himself bare and trusting Dean with his very life.

A shift in the wind and a moan from Cas as more light slips away renews Dean’s fear. He watches his friend double over and frantically pull at his belt, his sword clanking to the ground. Dean does not want to watch and yet he cannot look away as Cas pulls his clothes away, skin rippling into dark scales and nails growing into dragon claws.

Dean stumbles backward, clawing at the tree to help keep him upright. He presses his forehead to the bark and closes his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of grunts and the rustle of changing flesh.

When the ground vibrates with the hard slap of a tail against the earth Dean opens one eye and peers over.

He was expecting a monstrosity that would tower above the canopy, an angry beast with man-sized fangs. Instead he sees a sorrow-eyed creature that is no taller than Dean’s horse.

“Cas?” Dean says, hopping forward a little. It is getting too dark to make out much detail but Cas’ scales appear navy, tipped with mint blue, and the moonlight catches their shimmer as he shifts under Dean’s inspection.

He has a pair of raven black wings folded back submissively and those eyes… those eyes are the same azurite blue that drew Dean in from the moment they met.

Cas is breathtakingly magical.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, swallowing past a lump in his throat. “You are beautiful.” The words are out before Dean can control himself. He is surprised by his reaction, that he is enamored rather than disgusted. But it is still Cas. He reaches out a hand and pulls back.

But Cas makes a guttural sound and steps forward, stretching his neck toward Dean, his tightly pressed wings relaxing ever so slightly.

“You know who I am?” he asks, even though Cas had assured him he is cognizant. It --no, he-- snorts, in what Dean interprets as annoyance for Dean's disbelief, bobbing his head and nudging Dean’s shoulder.

Dean laughs and stares in awe. Cas apparently does not lose his attitude or ability to understand language when in this form. Dean lays a gentle hand over Cas’ muzzle. He hops forward a little and runs his hand up to Cas head and down his neck, using Cas’ body to help him balance on his uninjured foot.

“Your wings… can I see them?” Dean’s eyes grow wide as Cas expands them and shows them off a little. “You said you would get me home tonight. We will fly?” At Cas’ snort Dean confesses, “I am not fond of that idea but it may be the quickest.”

His foot is really bothering him and he won't admit to just how terrified the idea of flying seems. But he also said that he trusts Cas and with that thought he remembers something foreboding Cas had said.

Leaning against Cas’ side and absently palming the soft, leathery scales, Dean says, “I do not care if you are cursed. You are my best friend and I do not wish for you to leave. You asked me to trust you and you told me you would protect me. I extend the same promises to you.”

Cas turns his head and stretches it toward Dean, rubbing their cheeks together. His ability to strain his neck like that is endearing, the caress wildly intimate. But it is what Dean hopes is a sign of acceptance of Dean’s request that he not run away and hide.

“I suppose I should get home to mend my injury. You will be alright out here?” Dean laughs when Cas snorts again, the sound seemingly exasperated. “Of course you will be.”

Cas lowers his belly to the ground and Dean uses Cas’ bent foreleg to hop up and over his back. Dean scrambles to grab onto something when Cas rises. Other than the scales and wings, it really is not much different than being atop a horse.

Dean leans down and wraps his arms around his neck, settling his hands against Cas’ plated chest. Dean can feel the steady pulse of dragon's blood and magic pumping through Cas’ the veins beneath and he shudders.

If anyone knew about Cas, if they found the rumors are truth, then the village men would show no mercy. Every part of his corpse would be taken apart and sold. The thought makes Dean so sick he wants to retch but he swallows the bile down as Cas tries to take a gentle takeoff, wings kicking up a fuss of dirt and leaves.

He can feel his body being lifted, the sensation of Cas’ muscles flexing and shifting beneath Dean’s clenched thighs, the wind ripping through Dean’s hair. Dean keeps his eyes squeezed tight until they both alight on the ground moments later at the edge of the woods outside the village. Dean slides off almost instantly, his legs trembling, adrenaline temporarily masking his pain.

“Cas,” Dean lays a hand against Cas’ neck, looking out at the village. He thinks he sees movement and squints at it even as he says his goodbye. “I will see you in three days. Be safe out--”

“Dragon!” a frightened voice rips through the night and straight through to Dean’s heart, piercing him with fear. “It has the Winchester boy. Dragon!”

Someone pulls the rope at the watchtower, the bell ringing out frantically to warn the village.

“Quick, you have to go,” Dean yells desperately at the startled dragon. “Cas, they will kill you.”

Blue eyes look away from the village, where torches are being lit and wild commotion ensues, and into Dean’s eyes.

“Cas, I will be safe here. Now, go!”

With one final nudge at Dean’s cheek, Cas takes off, a dark silhouette in the night sky.

Dean limps as he turns his body around to face the storm of villagers heading his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantasy AUs are definitely something I am not used to but I am intrigued by. The pacing on this one was quick because it is a drabble (very short story), but if I were to revisit this one and make a full-length novel or a novella then it would get pulled out a little more and be more intense/dramatic/dark. There's *definitely* more to the story, such as when and how Castiel was cursed... and if there is even a cure.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one! If you're eager to hear more from ANY of my drabbles, please leave a comment on the ones you love most. I love to hear from readers. XO
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	15. Through the Ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mystery painting and mysterious painter come to town. Sam calls his brother in excitement over one of the gallery paintings that looks eerily identical to the older Winchester brother. Neither of them knows how the painter knows Dean or a Dean look alike. When Dean finally convinces himself to check it out, he's met with more than he bargained for when coming face-to-face with Castiel.
> 
> POV alternates: first Dean, then Cas, then Dean.
> 
> Promptober word of the day: MYSTERIOUS  
> Rated: Mature

“Dean, you really should come down here," Sam says over the phone. "It's uncanny how much it looks like you.”

“For the last time, Sam, artsy fartsy museums aren't my thing. And who cares if a painting looks like me?”

Dean can hear Sam sigh loudly. “The guy who painted it is here. He’s kinda weird but nice.”

“The guy is there, the one who painted a portrait,” Dean says, looking through the kitchen cabinets, “that you claim looks just like me and he's weird? Weird how?”

“I don't know, just intense. And he got all choked up. I swear he had tears in his eyes when he shook my hand.”

Dean shrugs even though Sam can't see him. “Maybe he's one of those sensitive art types.”

“I asked him what inspired him to paint this particular person, like maybe you have some long-lost twin out there that he knows. But he said,” Sam lowers his voice, “it's someone he sees in dreams.”

Dean can feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise and a shiver goes through his body, setting trails of goosebumps ablaze along his flesh. “Huh,” is all he can manage to say.

Sam lowers his voice even further. “Do you think he's some kinda stalker maybe? I mean, Dean, this seriously looks like you-you. Down to the freckles.”

Dean licks his lips and looks around his apartment for no particular reason other than the fact that he feels uneasy and needs to find something to put his focus into. “Send me a picture.”

“No,” Sam says after hesitation. “One, no photography allowed. And two, you gotta see it in person.”

“Come on, Sam,” Dean whines. “No one follows the ‘no photos’ rule. They can't control everyone…”

“Nice try, but they have filters here that prevent photos from being taken. You try to snap a pic and it gets scrambled.”

“Then turn on your OpticalRelay and hook up to mine,” Dean suggests. It would allow him to see through Sam’s right eye. All Dean would need to do is close his left and focus.

“Oh sure, and get caught? They monitor that shit when you enter the place. I'm not going to get slapped with a fine when you can just come down here, to the completely and totally free exhibit, and see it for yourself.”

“No can do, Sammy. Game’s about to start. I'll see you later.”

Dean clicks the button against his temple and peels the contraption off of his skin. He hates the damn communicator but it's the only way people talk anymore, smartphones having gone out of style fifty years back.

After looking at it for a few seconds he chucks it onto his antique coffee table from 2034.

“Television on,” he says dully. “Channel 542.” The TV flicks to life and Dean slouches on his couch, trying to not let his curiosity over the mystery painting --and its artist-- get to him.

+++

Castiel watches Sam from the safety of an alcove at the museum that is graciously allowing his traveling exhibit to be shown in their empty gallery. Sam is talking excitedly. It's clear he's called Dean, the way he keeps gesturing toward the painting and scowling insistently.

Dean could be coming here to view his collection. The thought alone makes Cas’ stomach curdle but not because it is a bad thing. No, it is a very, very good thing. He has been looking for him, and waiting, for such a long time.

Cas can hear Sam sigh dejectedly and then he taps his temple, ending his call. Sam puts his hands on his hips and inspects the canvas, looking up at it with such a familiar gaze and stance that Cas can feel prickling behind his eyes again.

When Cas had first spied Sam walking into the gallery he had to wait for his pulse and breathing to settle down before he could even step up and introduce himself.

Sam had eyed Cas curiously before he tentatively mentioned how much the painting looked like his brother. Cas made the offhand comment that he'd love to meet Sam’s brother if he ever decided to come down before the gallery moved to the next town.  
  
And now Cas will continue to wait for Dean, hopefully not for much longer. Judging by the way Sam’s mouth turns down at the end of his call, though, Dean must not have shared his enthusiasm. Dean may not be coming today after all.  
  
The collection will be shown for two more days before it is carefully packed up and moved to the next city. He can only hope that, if he knows Dean as he does, that his curiosity will consume him and he will show up, maybe even at the last minute.  
  
The entire next day Cas waits in nervous expectation but the bow-legged man with the chiseled jaw and hard expression doesn’t appear. After the last visitor has walked out Cas comes to stand before the five-foot canvas, gazing up at the familiar strokes of paint, the colors dark and warm.  
  
It would be so easy, knowing this is the town, to find him and show up on his doorstep. But Cas knows that Dean needs to come to him. He may have already crossed the line by dream-walking recently. Cas had only wanted to find clues as to where Dean lived, nothing more.  
  
But the dreams were pleasing and soft, unlike nightmares of the past. At night they beckoned to him, sometimes Dean’s own subconscious tugging at him to show up and stay a little while. It is because of those dreams that Cas was led to this city, planting the idea of the museum.  
  
Dean must have told Sam about it but declined to come himself. Regardless, it is an opening. And if this doesn’t work, Cas can send the exhibit on it’s way and stay behind himself to find a way to meet Dean, to explain and remind him...  
  
Cas turns off the track-light illuminating the painting from above, shadowing the face he loves so dearly. Feeling rejected Cas turns to the door to leave, stopping short when he sees the subject of his affections standing frozen in the doorway and staring at him in shock.  
  
They both stare and breathe the same air for several moments, Dean’s eyes wildly looking him over, as though he is wondering if this is a dream but somehow knowing it is not.  
  
Cas feels his knees buckling, but he fights to stay standing, trembling in the presence of the one human he’d give his life for in a heartbeat. His nose has a painful tickle as tears threaten, burning his eyes until he has to blink furiously and clear his throat several times.  
  
Dean breathes a shaky inhale and asks, “Do I know you?” on the exhale.  
  
Cas is not sure how to answer that. Yes and no, but more the latter. He looks Dean over helplessly, breaking away from shiny verdant eyes to take in the familiar faded denim, the cozy flannel, and a blue jacket where Dean’s hands are tucked away. Some things never change, even across decades.  
  
Dean looks past Cas when he doesn’t answer, his mouth parting in shock. Even without the light on it is clear who occupies the large canvas. Dean takes a hesitant step into the room, giving Cas a wide berth as he steps around to look at the painting as though it is a reflection and not two-dimensional art.  
  
Cas follows Dean, drawn to him, knowing that he will be unable to let him go now that Dean is here. This is so much different than dreams. This is reality and all he need do is reach out and touch...  
  
“You’re the painter?” Dean asks slowly, narrowing his eyes at the softly smiling Dean on the wall. “And I’ve seen you in....” Dean looks over at Cas and swallows hard, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he works through his thoughts.  
  
“I am and you have,” Cas says thickly, resisting the urge to step closer or to pull Dean into his arms.  
  
Dean hunches his shoulders, his hands clearly forming tight fists in his pockets. “But how?”  
  
“Do you believe in fate?” Cas asks, tilting his head as he takes in the freckles in real-time, the curve of Dean’s nose and the pink hue tingeing the tips of his ears.  
  
Dean snorts and says, “Hell no,” making Cas break into a soft smile.  
  
“No, you don’t. This isn’t fate. This is choice. Made a long, long time ago.”  
  
“I have seen you…” Dean shifts on his feet, clearly uncomfortable. “We have never met but I’ve dreamed about you and you have that,” Dean takes a hand out of his pocket and gestures toward the painting, “so you know me?” He shakes his head. “I am so fucking confused.”  
  
“I know,” Cas says softly. He wants to reach out but not yet. As all things that are worth waiting for, Cas is willing to wait as long as it takes to have Dean’s permission.  
  
“So, uh, who are you?” Dean asks uneasily, taking a step back.  
  
“My name is Castiel, but you call me Cas.”  
  
Dean nods and looks down at the ground, sucking on his upper lip. “Are you some kinda mind reader or psychic or somethin’? Not that I believe in them,” Dean says with a humorless laugh, “but I’m not sure how else you… we…” It is Dean’s turn to look at Cas helplessly.  
  
He takes a deep breath. “I am not--” Cas stops himself and tries again. “You are --how do I put this-- reborn? We knew one another a century ago. Not just you and me, but Sam as well.”  
  
Dean is instantly on guard, expression hard and angry. “You know what? I don’t know what the fuck is going on but you're certifiably insane.” Dean backs up toward the door, turning to go.  
  
+++  
  
  
“Dean, wait,” Cas cries out and something in in his voice stops Dean. “I have waited decades to see you again, day after day, year after year. Please, let me show you--”  
  
“Do you realize how you sound?” Dean asks, voice strained. He looks over his shoulder before turning his whole body, hurt and anger warring in his eyes. “You sound like-,” Dean’s brow furrows and he snaps his mouth shut. Not daring to finish the sentence. The man sounds like he’s in love. Crazy but...  
  
“I do not have much power but what little I do have allows me to walk in dreams. And I have enough power left to show you just a few glimpses.”  
  
“Power, like witchcraft? How do I know it’s not some spell you’re puttin’ on me?”  
  
“You don’t,” Cas answers honestly. He is doing those puppy dog eyes that Sam does. “You have to trust me.”  
  
“Buddy, I don’t trust nobody,” Dean scoffs.  
  
Cas’ face falls and he appears resigned, his shoulders slumping, his forehead wrinkling with his despair. Dean looks away, hesitating between staying and leaving. Cas doesn’t look like he’s about to attack or stop Dean from walking outta here to never look back.  
  
But Dean has seen him in some of his most vivid dreams. And he is right, he does call him Cas. The dreams are hazy now but nothing in them struck Dean as being scary or horrible. Many times they never even spoke. Sometimes Cas would be a face in a crowd, watchful but somehow not creepy. Other times were intimate, but not sex. Like Dean laying his lead in his lap as they watched something on TV.  
  
The few times he remembers them talking were mostly Cas asking him questions about what he likes and does, kinda like crap people ask on dates when getting to know someone.  
  
He doesn’t know what to make of any of this but he knows one thing and that one thing is that he’ll regret walking out without finding out exactly what Cas means by showing Dean glimpses of some past.  
  
“Okay,” Dean says quietly, drawing Cas’ attention back. “What do I hafta to do?”  
  
Cas takes a breath and smiles a cautious sorta smile. “You don’t have to do anything. I only need to touch your head.” Cas closes the distance, his energy almost palpable. “I won’t be able to meet you in dreams anymore after this. It will take every last bit…”  
  
“Just-- let’s get it over with,” Dean says gruffly, growing anxious.  
  
Cas steps right up to Dean and he can’t help but close his eyes. Cas barely touches him, lightning coursing through his body as scenes flash in his mind. He almost wasn’t sure he believed Cas had powers at all but there is no denying the emotions and the memories flooding into him. When Dean opens his eyes again he’s breathing hard and clutching the front of Cas’ shirt, his face wet.  
  
Dean lets go of his shirt so he can clasp this beautiful face before him. This time, when he says his name, it is with complete recognition and with reciprocated love. “Cas?"  
  
“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, smiling through his own tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	16. Great Scott!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: "I went to water my plants on the balcony and you're on yours with a tinfoil hat... what the hell are you doing?"
> 
> This is a funny one and a reader favorite! 
> 
> Promptober word of the day: FAT  
> Rated: Teen+

“Charlie, I’m tellin’ ya, the guy has a screw loose,” Dean says into his phone, holding his binoculars up and peering out his window. “Dude, he’s out there right now with a tinfoil hat on his head, I kid you not.”  
  
“He’s calling the Mothership, duh.”  
  
“Charlie, be serious,” Dean scolds. Then he laughs and says, “You know that’s not how you contact the Mothership.”  
  
“Hmm, maybe he needs better TV reception?”  
  
Dean huffs and watches the man across the street adjust his shiny, silver hat before putting his hands on his hips, looking around.  
  
“Shit, I think he almost saw me.”  
  
“Dean, tell me you’re not sitting at your window with binoculars watching the poor guy,” Charlie teases. “Because that would make you just as weird.”  
  
“Hey, I will have you know that I was minding my own business a couple months ago, just looking out at the falling snow, when the guy came out onto his balcony in bright orange swimming trunks. He then proceeded to stand there until he started turning red. I had half a mind to go over there and pull his ass back into his apartment. No, no, listen,” Dean says when Charlie starts laughing. “This is serious. This guy is nuts.”  
  
And hot as hell. It’s always the crazy ones, or they’re taken, or they’re not into Dean. And so it goes, on and on and on. Dean should get a cat, or a dozen, at this point. He can be the proverbial cat lady and die alone, leaving his cats to eat his body when he croaks because no one is here to…  
  
“Dean? Put your voyeur goggles away before he sees you and starts to think you’re the one with a screw loose.”  
  
With one more look at the man who is now squinting up at the sky in serious contemplation, Dean closes the curtain and sits back on his couch. “Fine,” Dean sighs.  
  
“You should try to meet him.”  
  
“Uh, and why would I do that?” Dean asks, peering through the curtains again. The man has gone inside. Dean purses his lips in annoyance and tries to think of a reason to go over there.  
  
“Well,” Charlie says, putting on her most serious voice, “maybe he’s lonely. Or maybe he needs help, like the mental kind. What else has he done?”  
  
“He’s got plants lined up outside, right? And he’ll bring out a tray with syringes and different colored liquids and feed them to his plants instead of water. Like, playing plant doctor or somethin’.”  
  
“Okay, yeah, that is weird. He never waters them with regular water? Anything else?”  
  
Dean can’t stop checking out his window every few minutes. He checks again and whispers furiously, “Dude, he’s back.”  
  
“I thought I told you to stop watching him,” Charlie laughs. Then she grows serious and whispers, “What is he doing now?”  
  
“Actually, something normal for once.” Dean picks up his binoculars to get a better look. “He’s got a drink, maybe coffee, and a sketchbook? He’s just sitting down and drawing something.”  
  
The man has left his sliding door open and a cat prances out the door, weaving its way around his pantlegs. That’s when Dean sees the rainbow socks and starts chuckling.  
  
“What? What’re you laughing at? I’m about to come over there and play Peeping Tom with you if you withhold from me, dude.”  
  
“Nothing, Charlie. He’s got a cat. Oh wait, he’s got at least two. Why does that not surprise me?”  
  
“Please tell me that the cats are super fat and wear teeny tiny little sweaters.”  
  
“Pssh, you wish. They’re just normal house cats,” Dean says, looking over the orange tabby and what he thinks is a Siamese.

“Alright, Weirdo, I need to skedaddle. Let me know if the odd neighbor does anything else crazy.”

Things continue on the same for awhile until one day the man comes out in the worst heat of summer wearing a puff coat, sunglasses, scarf, gloves and enough winter wear to be rendered unrecognizable.

Just like with the trunks in winter he just stands there. Waiting. Watching. Before he goes back inside he pulls a sleeve up and looks at his watch.

On a really windy day he ties a kite to his balcony and sits with a legal pad, making marks every time the kite so much as shivers in the breeze.

All around the balcony half of the man’s plants have flourished exponentially. Dean bears witness to the man excitedly taking the decrepit ones into his apartment before returning with a mug and to begin plucking healthy leaves off his plants.

That's when Dean decides he has had all he can take. He slides his door open and creeps out to his balcony, telling himself to not look down. He's breaking out in a cold sweat and his voice cracks when he yells out, “Hey! Hey, you!”

The man scowls and looks around calculatingly slow to find the source of the yelling, shielding his eyes before they alight on Dean. He looks surprised.

“Yeah, you. What're you doing?”

The man shakes his head and shrugs, cupping a hand behind an ear to indicate he can't hear Dean.

Dean gulps and slides a foot forward, coming closer to the banister. “What - are - you - doing?” he bellows, wind whipping his hair and stinging his eyes.  
  
The man looks down at the potted plants at his feet and back up at Dean, smiling slowly. He beckons to Dean.  
  
It is Dean’s turn to be surprised. “You - want - me - to - come - over?”  
  
The man nods and goes inside with his leaf-filled mug, the glass door sliding behind him and catching the sun's reflection. Dean gratefully backs up to his door and goes inside, heaving a sigh of relief. He fucking hates heights. He still doesn’t know why he decided to rent on the tenth floor.  
  
Dean grabs his keys and his cell phone, calling Charlie on his way over.  
  
“Talk to me, Winchester,” she quips when she picks up.  
  
“I’m about to board the Mothership,” he replies, growing breathless as he takes the stairs down.  
  
Charlie makes a confused sound. “Dean, I have no idea what that me-- oh! Oh? Really?”  
  
Dean bursts through the front doors of his apartment and looks both ways before crossing the street. “I’m just letting you know in case I fall into a vortex or get abducted by aliens. You’ll know where I was last seen.”  
  
Charlie laughs and bids him good luck.  
  
The entrance to the apartment building opens up before him and for the first time Dean is face-to-face with the wacko who has lived across the street from him for the better part of a year. He’s wearing a tight-fitting shirt with suspenders and a bowtie but somehow he makes the whole thing look decidedly hot rather than dorky.  
  
Dean runs a nervous hand over his thigh to rub away any sweat before he reaches out and shakes the man’s warm hand. “I’m Dean.”  
  
“I am Castiel,” he says and Dean instantly dubs him Cas. “So you want to know what I am doing?”  
  
Dean scratches the back of his head, suddenly embarrassed. It really isn’t any of his business. “I just noticed you,” he waves a hand, “doing things that seemed…”  
  
“Weird? Strange?” Instead of being upset Cas laughs which helps Dean relax. “Well, come on, let’s go see what I’ve been up to.”  
  
Dean follows Cas up his stairs and he’s kinda disappointed when they step inside a completely normal looking apartment. Dean half-expected popping gas lights and the whole Mad Scientist vibe. He’s still a little weary but Cas doesn’t lock the deadbolt or turn a knife on him. So Dean has that much going for him…  
  
Putting his hands in his pockets he continues to follow Cas to the dining room. The table is covered in thick textbooks and notes galore. He raises a confused brow at Cas.  
  
“I’m a scientist and professor. And you probably saw some of my… experiments.”  
  
“Ah,” Dean says, rocking back on his heels after squinting at some notes that looked like a completely different language. Now it all makes sense and he feels like a total ass. “So the weather-inappropriate clothes, the kite..?”  
  
“Yes, those are some weather experiments that I was conducting. The former in relation to body temperature changes and the latter I was watching wind patterns.”  
  
Dean laughs and looks down, noticing Cas is wearing pink-and-purple argyle socks. He raises his eyes but Cas’ attention is drawn to something just behind him so Dean turns to find the tabby is sitting there swishing its tail.  
  
“That is Homer,” Cas informs him.  
  
Dean squats down and reaches out a hand for the cat to sniff. “Oh, like the Simpsons?”  
  
“I am not sure who they are. No, he’s named after the Greek poet and author.  
  
“Oh, right,” Dean says, standing back up. “The Odyssey.”  
  
Cas looks pleasantly surprised that Dean knows that. “Aesop, my other cat, is around here somewhere but he’s a little wary of strangers. Not that I have very many people over.”  
  
Dean looks around and spies the mug with leaves sitting on the counter in the adjacent kitchen, surrounded by pots full of wilted plants. “What about those. What experiment is that?”  
  
“Those are my herbs and I wasn’t experimenting for any study. This was just for me. I wanted to know which plant food worked best with each plant and it got a little out-of-hand. But,” Cas says brightly, “I know which plant foods to avoid now.”  
  
“That is definitely an upside,” Dean says, watching Cas dump out the healthy leaves onto some parchment. “So, Cas, I kinda expected the kooky science guy to have inventions and test tubes filled with smoking liquids…”  
  
Cas silently watches Dean for a disconcerting moment. “I want to show you something.” Once again he walks off without a word, expecting Dean to follow. Which, of course, Dean does.  
  
“Whoa, where we headin’?” Dean asks as they step down the short hall and stop at a closed door. “Maybe buy me dinner before you show me to your bedroom,” Dean says, only half-kidding, because the dude is stupid hot. And surprisingly interesting and smart…  
  
Cas huffs and chuckles a little, hand on the doorknob. He points to another door. “That’s my room over there.” He tilts his head, hesitating before adding, “But I’ll take you to dinner. If you want.”  
  
The doorknob clicks and the door swings open before a stunned Dean can respond because the guy just basically said he’d take Dean to dinner with the assumption the bedroom would follow… that can’t be right, maybe... but Dean’s train of thought takes an unexpected detour when he spies the room beyond Cas’ shoulder in renewed shock.  
  
Cas steps out of the way so Dean can enter a room that is filled with inventions and art, one entire wall covered in old clocks. There are rolls of papers filled with who-know-what and an easel with a painting that looks like it’s still a work-in-progress.  
  
“This is more like it, Cas,” Dean says in awe.  
  
Strange little contraptions are scattered about, with things like model airplanes dangling from the ceiling. Dean takes a slow walk around the room, poking at things and asking what everything does. Cas patiently explains it all, never tiring of the endless questions.  
  
When Dean’s curiosity has been sated enough for one day he faces Cas once they’ve reached his front door. “So how ‘bout a social experiment? Do you want to go on that date now? Tonight?”  
  
He gets a little enjoyment out of how flustered the well-composed Cas becomes but he agrees. While Dean waits for Cas to grab his shoes, he shoots Charlie a message.  
  
  
Dean - 5:56pm - date with the Mad Scientist in t-minus twenty  
  
Charlie - 5:56pm - he put a spell on you?

Dean - 5:56pm - if he did i dont care.

Charlie - 5:57pm - score!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Siamese cat so I just had to give Cas one. Of course, my baby boy is named Beckett after Carson Beckett (Stargate Atlantis). In this world Dean isn't allergic to cats so it's all good that Cas has a couple.
> 
> Does anyone else think Cas would get a fucking kick out of wearing crazy awesome socks? I do! As more stories of mine publish you may see that theme carry over because it's just one little eccentric thing that I think Cas would do. *headcanon*
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	17. The Pizza Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a bored, rigid, saintly college boy to do when an extremely drunk man calls him and orders pizza... by mistake? Why, pick up a pizza and bring it to him, of course. Dean calls him out on looking for adventure and begs for one night after he's sobered up a bit. Leads to smut times.
> 
> Promptober word of the day is: GRACEFUL (and as you'll see, I went for the antonym)  
> Rated: EXPLICIT for sexual content.

Castiel’s ringing phone is starting to grate on his nerves. He is nearing the end of a paper that he's typing up, a paper that is due in the morning, but the insistent caller will not let up.  
  
The first time they called, no problem. Cas just declined it and let it go to voicemail. The second time he ended up staring at the number, trying to figure out if he knows it but still didn't answer. The third time the person left a voicemail but Cas didn’t listen because, like he’s mentioned, he really needs to get his homework done.  
  
“Hello?” Cas says, finally snapping at the start of the fourth call.  
  
Someone breathing heavily on the other side loudly exclaims, “Thank Glob! I tho-thought yer closed.”  
  
“I’m sorry?” Cas asked and then he mentally kicked himself. Obviously this is a bored frat boy trying to prank-call him. “Nice try but--”  
  
“I’d like... ta order a black olive pizza,” the voice slurs. “Do ya ‘ave those little packets of cheese?”  
  
“I’m not a--”  
  
“Whas my total? Fur-git it, I have cash-sh-sh. I’m at, uh… hold on.” There’s a loud rustling sound and a few muffled curse words. “At 307 Pine Hurst.”  
  
The line goes silent and Cas pulls his phone away to stare at it dumbly. What the hell just happened? Was he pranked or was the guy so drunk he couldn’t function properly?  
  
Cas sets his phone down on his desk and gets back to work on his paper, chewing his lip and glancing at his phone every few minutes. He groans in frustration and snatches the phone up, speed-dialing the pizza place next to campus and ordering one black olive pizza.  
  
It’ll take them twenty minutes so he finishes the last few paragraphs in that time, grabs his jacket and keys, and walks the few blocks down to get the pizza and, of course, extra packets of Parmesan.  
  
He could be making a total fool of himself and the asshole part of him wants to just call it like it seems: a prank. But the other part of him, the part that worries that this person, who is ordering a single pizza and is drunk off his ass and who is alone and inebriated beyond belief, may need someone to watch over him.  
  
Pine Hurst is a good five-minute walk from the pizza place. It isn’t the best neighborhood but it isn’t the worst by a long shot either. Just a bit rundown, mostly homes owned by older folks. Cas finds the squat little house at 307 and all is quiet, the flickering light of a television behind the picture window’s drawn curtains.  
  
It doesn’t look like a wild party is going on and, again, the man only ordered a single pizza. Cas steels his nerves and knocks.  
  
When the door flings open Cas is hit by the smell of alcohol and he’s surprised to find that the man standing before him looks to be his age. He had assumed he would be older.  
  
“Oh yeah, fer-got I ordered.” The man reaches behind him for a wallet he can’t seem to find.  
  
Cas clears his throat. “May I come in? This pizza is hot and burning my hands.”  
  
“Sure, sure,” the other man mumbles, tripping over a boot in the foyer when he backs up. He puts his arms out to catch himself on the wall and bursts out laughing. “I’m ready for Swan Lake,” he jokes. “Do ya see how graceful ‘m?”  
  
“Are you okay? What is your name?” Cas asks, stepping past him into a dim room to set the pizza box down on the coffee table.  
  
“Dean,” he says shortly, closing the door and walking unsteadily back to the room to flop on his couch. “I’m so fucking hungry. How’d ya know I wanted pizza?”  
  
This is worse than Cas thought. The man is swaying just trying to open the pizza box. “Is there someone I can call for you, Dean?” Cas asks gently, taking a seat near him on the couch. Close but not too close. “Did something happen that made you want to drink like this tonight?”  
  
Dean takes a big bite. “I hate olives but… ‘s good.” Dean grins at him and even glassy-eyed and red-faced he’s a beautiful person. Cas looks away and grabs a piece himself. He paid for it after all, and it looks like he might be here awhile. “Bachelor party," Dean says around another bite. "Baby brother… gettin’ married.”   
  
That would explain why Dean not only smells like alcohol but like cheap perfume, and there is a dusting of glitter on his jeans. “I hope someone had sense to bring you home and you didn’t drive here yourself. You’re completely wasted.”  
  
Dean laughs like Cas just said the funniest thing he has ever heard. “I like you. Ya-- yer a good ‘ne.”  
  
“My name is Castiel, by the way, but you can call me Cas,” he says, getting up to go into the kitchen. He expected to find a drunken mess, but other than a couple of plates in the sink and a beer bottle on the counter, the kitchen looks typical. Not glistening clean but lived-in.  
  
Cas opens and closes cabinets until he finds the one containing water glasses, filling them up and returning to sit beside Dean. Maybe he could stay long enough until Dean comes to his senses. Cas would never forgive himself if he left and the man died from alcohol poisoning or choking on his own vomit.  
  
Dean takes the water and doesn’t seem all that weirded out by Cas’ presence. He starts talking about the survival show that is on the television, reeling Cas into his interests and into his world.  
  
When Dean’s drunken slurs give way to fatigued slurs he also begins to slump a little, eyes growing heavy. “Jus’ gonna rest my eyes,” he murmurs and before Cas can ask him if he needs help getting to his room, Cas has the other man’s head in his lap.  
  
“Dean?” Cas asks, resting a hand on top of his hair, but Dean doesn’t respond. “Wish I could fall asleep that fast,” Cas quietly complains, leaning back into the comfortable couch, threading his fingers in silken strands while he watches the near-silent television until he is asleep himself.  
  
Cas wakes when he is poked in his bicep, really fucking hard. He grunts and swats at the offending hand, clenching his eyes tighter.  
  
“Hey? Uh, guy?”  
  
Cas opens one eye, sees Dean looking at him in messy-haired and sleepy confusion. The sight of him sparks Cas to life. “Oh no, what time is it?” He starts patting his pocket for his phone and pulls it out to squint at the time.  
  
“No idea. I just… who are you?”  
  
“It’s 4:30 in the morning,” Cas groans. He looks over at the disheveled man sitting next to him. “Uh, I’m Cas. You ordered pizza from me several hours ago.”  
  
Dean’s face screws up in confusion. “Is this a new service? Delivery guys stay the night now?”  
  
“I’m not a pizza man. You called me by mistake and, before I could tell you that you had the wrong number, you placed an order and hung up.” Cas tilts his head at him. “I couldn’t very well not deliver. Or at the very least not check on you. You were… very intoxicated.”  
  
“Oh shit, did I--”  
  
“No, you were the perfect gentleman. Told me all about how to survive in Alaska.” At Dean’s confused scowl Cas adds, “Some television program.”  
  
“Ah, I see. So let me get up to speed here. I drunk dialed you to order pizza, we watched Survive Alaska and I fell asleep in your lap?”  
  
Cas rubs his eyes, ready to go back to sleep. “That sums it up succinctly, Dean,” he says tiredly.  
  
“Where did you get the pizza from?”  
  
“I ordered it, of course.”  
  
“You bought me dinner? I don’t even remember any of this. Lousy date I am.”  
  
Cas huffs and closes his eyes, resting his head on the back of the couch. “Hardly a date, Dean. I don’t know you and you certainly do not know me.”  
  
The couch shifts a little and Cas feels a hand on his thigh. He opens his eyes and looks over at Dean.  
  
“Thanks, Cas. You didn’t have to do that, any of it.”  
  
Dean’s fingers knead his flesh a little and Cas looks down and back up. Electric shivers thrum through his body. “Dean--” he says warningly. “I’m not-- I didn’t come here to…”  
  
“Of course not,” Dean says, scooting closer until their knees knock together and Dean is leaning into him. “You coulda happened upon anybody which was stupid and risky. But you did it. And then stayed. College guy, right?”  
  
Cas nods mutely, closing his eyes and trying to breathe normally when Dean’s hand moves between his thighs.  
  
“Sometimes, ya just need a break, Cas. Break from all the classes and the hours after classes tryin’ to pay for the classes… did ya come here for a little danger? Adventure?”  
  
“I… don’t know,” Cas whispers. “I jus--” Cas’ body jerks when Dean cups him and rubs his palm over his hardening cock. “I just wanted to make sure you would be okay.”  
  
But even he knows it is more than just checking on a drunk stranger. The moment he saw Dean open the door and invited himself in was the moment he made his choice even if he didn't take advantage of the drunk host. He doesn’t try to stop a somewhat sobered Dean from touching him.  
  
“C’mon,” Dean says, his hot hand leaving Cas’ erection cold and lonely in order to take Cas’ hand instead. Cas lets Dean lead him down a hall and to a bedroom.  
  
“Dean, I don’t know,” Cas says uncertainly. He hasn’t done anything like this before. Always the do-gooder who does as he;s told. And he’s never been with anyone before. Cas isn’t sure he wants the first to be some post-drunk stranger… even if that stranger is extremely attractive.  
  
“Cas, just one night,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around Cas’ waist where they stand in the middle of the room, pulling his hips in and grinding hard against him.  
  
Fuck it. He has the alarm set on his phone. One night. One night where he doesn’t have to be the perfect saint. One night he can let go and just have fun and then walk away and go back to the regularly scheduled program.  
  
“Okay,” Cas whispers and Dean kisses him, rubbing his hands under Cas’ shirt and against the heat of his back. Cas finds himself shirtless only a moment later, Dean tugging his own off shortly after that.  
  
Quick hands make work of removing Cas’ pants, opening them with a short zip. He can feel the rustle of them as they slip down his legs. Cas stumbles out of them and kicks them away, sitting down on at the foot of the bed in only his boxers while Dean loses the last of his clothes and chases after Cas’ lips once he’s freed.  
  
He scoots backward toward the headboard while Dean follows, Cas breaking away to confess, “I’ve never done this.”  
  
“S’okay, I got you.” Dean sits up where he’s straddling Cas so he can lean over to the nightstand and grab a condom and lube.  
  
Cas’ anxiety skyrockets at the sight of the little square foil and the white tube. He can’t believe he’s doing this but then Dean leans down and makes him forget about being anxious at all, losing himself in the touch and taste of another person.  
  
Hot hands tug his boxers down and off, Dean resettling between Cas’ knees to slick his fingers. “Just relax,” Dean murmurs before kissing a hipbone and then Cas’ side, trailing teeth along his stomach. The intrusion of one finger makes Cas gasp but he relaxes into it as Dean effectively distracts him by wrapping his lips around Cas' cock.  
  
All of these new sensations, all at once, are almost too much. Cas' hips move involuntarily, rolling in little circles to adjust to the feeling. The sting of his rim has faded away to a teasing pleasure he wants to chase after when Dean adds a second finger.  
  
Dean is bobbing his head slowly but even that is bringing Cas' orgasm faster than he wants. Cas clutches the bedsheet with one hand and tugs Dean's hair to pull him off his dick with a pop before he explodes. He doesn't want to come, not yet.   
  
Dean smiles softly, knowingly, and leans over Cas' body to softly press kisses across his heaving chest, scissoring his fingers. He finds a spot of flesh to suck on, leaving a purpling hickie just above Cas' heart, as he continues to work Cas open. Purposefully ignoring Cas' cock pulls Cas back from the edge a bit and he sighs and hums in pleasing, deep tones, rubbing his hands over Dean's skin and hair.   
  
By the time Dean can easily work three wide fingers in him, they’re both panting and glistening with a sheen of fresh sweat. Dean rolls the condom on, his eyes rolling back a little with the few pumps he gives himself. Cas watches him add a lot more lube than he would think is necessary but then Dean pushes into him and Cas is lost in the fullness that is setting every nerve-ending on fire.  
  
Dean wraps one arm behind Cas to grab his shoulder, the other pushing Cas’ hip into the mattress as Dean rolls into him, gliding in and almost-out, building the pace until Cas cannot do anything but hold on, digging into Dean’s upper back.  
  
“You are so fucking tight,” Dean grunts with breathy sighs, grinding down and rolling his hips in quick circles, drawing a rumbly groan from Cas' throat when he hits just the right spot. Which, of course, makes Dean smirk and hit that same spot over and over until Cas is moaning at each touch and trembling.  
  
Cas is confident he can come untouched at this point but he brings one hand between them to grab his throbbing cock. He pumps himself in quick rhythm until his ass is clenching tight around Dean’s and he is spurting hot white against Dean’s chest.  
  
“Cas, so good,” Dean mumbles, slowing down to deeply thrust through his own orgasm, shuddering above Cas.  
  
Dean lay down next to him, letting out little puffy exhales as he smiles sleepily, eyes closed. Cas watches him a moment and tries to catch his own breath. He’s never, not ever, experienced anything like that. Why has he always tried to do everything by the book? How can he have a taste of this and never do it again? He agreed to just one night of fun and then he’d walk away.  
  
He isn’t sure he’ll be able to walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally, I have Dean bottom but it just felt right to go this direction for this particular story and version of Cas. At this point they do not really know each other. To both of them it's just a one night stand and about sex. But I can see it becoming more. Kinda a parallel to Dean's own canon storyline on SPN where he's attracted to Cas at first and it gradually grows into being IN love with Cas.
> 
> So anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. We're already a pinch over halfway through for Promptober and I cannot believe I've pushed out 17 short stories so far. My longer fics are being neglected, lol, but I have GREAT things coming and a lot of inspiration from my short fics here that will become longer stories as well.
> 
> Ciao!
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	18. What Can Wash Away My Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has been taken captive in order to protect his brother from the repercussions of a loan that Sam cannot pay back.
> 
> Castiel and his task force have been trying to crack down on Alistair's operation for months. Castiel's special mission is to rescue the hostage that Alistair has held for four weeks, if Dean Winchester is even still alive.
> 
> Promptober word of the day: FILTHY  
> Rating: Explicit  
> WARNING: Violence and death (not MCD).

“Aw, what a pretty face,” Alistair sneers. “It’s a shame I’m going to have to… do some work on it.”  
  
Dean gasps at the sensation of cold metal pressing against his cheekbone, trying to lean back from the pressure. “L-Look, I don’t know who you think I am, but you got the wrong guy. M-My name is Dean. Winchester.”  
  
Alistair pulls the blade away and Dean lets out a breath of relief. “I’m fairly certain I have the right guy. You said you’d pay your brother’s --let’s call it a tab, shall we?-- and I’m here to collect.”  
  
Dean groans and closes his eyes, remembering the stupid loan Sam had taken from the wrong people, that Dean had agreed to pay in his place. “I thought-- I thought I had until the end of the month.”  
  
“Nope,” Alistair says cheerily. “Time’s up now.”  
  
The goons that had picked Dean off of the street and manhandled him into a van appear from the shadows to stand guard while Alistair, who introduced himself to Dean once the Chloroform had worn off, moves to a metal surgical tray to look over some gnarly instruments.  
  
Dean is bound by leather straps to a barber chair, sitting under the heat of a lamp that is making him disgustingly sweaty. He reeks of fear and of the whiskey he had been drinking before he was nabbed.  
  
“What should we play first?” Alistair hums, fingers dancing over glinting metal.  
  
“What do you mean?” Dean asks, dread like an icy grip around his heart. He knew Sam got the loan underground, under the guise of some reputable establishment, but this isn’t the movies. People don’t really torture other people, right? “What exactly is going on here?”  
  
“Payment, of course. No money means it is time to pay up… with your life.”  
  
  
+++  
  
  
Castiel’s adrenaline is at an all-time high when he gets into position outside of the heavily guarded mansion. He signals to Abner and to Hester that he’s ready. They’re going to bust down Alistair’s corrupt operation once-and-for-all, guns blazing.  
  
Alastair may also have a hostage, if he is even still alive. Castiel’s personal mission is to see to the safe recovery of the person, a Dean Winchester, who has been missing for four weeks. The other people on Castiel's task force are to take down all threats, by any means necessary, if they cannot be captured alive.  
  
Mainly they want Alistair for questioning.  
  
Castiel is itching for the go-ahead and as soon as it is given, they’re off, slinking through the black shadows. Several snipers take out all visible guards simultaneously so that none can signal a warning. They drop instantly with soft thumps.  
  
Inside is a different game. There are walls, corridors, locked rooms with heavy doors. Chaos ensues, deafening alarms ring. Cas’ laser sharp focus brings down three men when Afriel drops just behind him. Cas turns and takes out the grunt who just killed one of his men.  
  
With renewed anger he slips down the corridor, lifting his gun to kill another man and shooting the meaty thigh of the one behind him. The man screams and drops, writhing on the floor, his gun forgotten. Cas steps over and glares down, his gun pointed at the man’s heart.  
  
“Dean Winchester? Alive?”  
  
“Fu-fuck you,” the man spits.  
  
“You tell me where he is and I let you live. You’ve got three seconds to decide. 3,” Cas starts counting. “2.”  
  
“Okay, okay! He’s in the basement. Special room but shouldn’t be heavily guarded,” the man gasps, “with all of this going on. He was Alistair’s, uh, pet... but don’t think Alistair cares enough to protect him over getting himself out.”  
  
Cas nods and helps the man up, pointing his gun forward. Shots ring out in the distance, all around the house, but someone finally cut that infernal alarm. It leaves Cas’ ears ringing as he drags the man to an empty room where he handcuffs him. Cas pulls down a curtain and tosses it on his lap for the man to make his own tourniquet.  
  
As everyone else moves upstairs, Cas turns to go back down to find the basement door. The blueprints are burned into his memory from their recon and he follows them swiftly, past corpses of both Alistair’s men and a few of his own. Cas can’t look at them, can’t focus on that right now.  
  
All that matters is his mission and he can’t help the dead anyway.  
  
“Jophiel,” Cas says when he comes upon one of his men, so he doesn’t get shot by mistake. They nod at one another in recognition but Cas continues on. When he turns into the kitchen, his face is met with the butt of a gun and he stumbles back. He tries to shake off the pain and how stunned he is in time to barrel into his attacker.  
  
Before Alistair’s man can lift and aim, Cas grabs the attacker’s gun, his own swinging down to knock against his thighs from its straps. They play a bit of tug-o-war until Cas fakes him out and rips the gun away. The man goes down with a single shot but not before Cas registers the fear in his eyes.  
  
Swallowing down his bile, Cas turns to the basement door. He really hates going down steps when he can’t see what’s ahead. He takes the first step and squats down to try and peer into the dimness. He listens but doesn’t hear anyone, not even a rat.  
  
Taking a deep breath he starts to take the steps sideways, his back pressed against the wall and banister, trying to not make a sound. The wood threatens to creak no matter how carefully he moves. There is immense relief when Cas reaches the ground at the bottom of the stairs but the room isn’t an open cellar.  
  
It is a massive structure of more corridors and rooms. Cas slowly makes his way down the first, eyeing each placard and peering through any rooms that have windows.  
  
If he was keeping someone prisoner… Cas would keep them in the center, away from any exits.  
  
Cas makes his way in that direction, sounds beginning to reach his ears. Hushed tones, scraping of metal and the roll of wheels on the concrete floors. He can hear the sound of a vehicle starting up, a large one so most likely a van. Trusting that men are stationed outside to intercept, Cas doesn’t veer from his mission.  
  
Pressing his back against a wall he checks his gun and makes sure it is fully loaded. He can hear numerous voices now and he doesn’t have backup. He’s gotta do this on his own.  
  
With several deep inhales and slow exhales Cas steps out and starts firing. The yelps and screams of dying, frightened men fall on deaf ears. Skillful and quick, Cas takes them all out save for one that manages to slip away and make a run for it.  
  
Cas can’t risk running after him and getting caught off-guard. Not this close.  
  
What he guesses is dead-center of the basement is a square structure with no windows and a single door. The men had been standing guard and most likely ordered to kill Dean. For all Cas knows there are more men inside and the victim already dead.  
  
Still…

Cas pounds on the door. “Police, open up.” He pounds again.  
  
“It’s locked,” comes a muffled voice.  
  
“Stand back. I’m going to blow the door. Do you understand? Stand back!”  
  
“Yes,” the voice says.  
  
Cas prepares the explosive. He can only hope the door is solid wood and not simply veneered steel. And if it is reinforced steel that he does at least enough damage to get it torn open.  
  
“Ready in three. Stand back,” Cas warns again, walking down to an adjacent corridor for cover. He doesn’t bother to count in case the man can’t hear him from here. Without hesitation he presses the detonator and still flinches knowing the blast is coming.  
  
Smoke chokes him and burns his eyes but Cas works through it, stepping over the dead guards he had taken out, his boots slipping slightly in blood.  
  
“Dean Winchester?” he asks the man coughing fitfully when he steps into the room.  
  
“Y--yes.”  
  
“I am Special Officer Castiel Novak. I’m here to get you out, okay?”  
  
As the smoke clears Cas isn’t shocked to find a filthy, wide-eyed man curled up in a corner. But he is shocked when Dean jumps up and snarls, grabbing a scalpel from a tray and swiping at Cas.  
  
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Dean bites out. “Does Alistair?”  
  
Cas puts up his hands and sidesteps Dean. “I’m not a threat. I do not work for Alistair.”  
  
“Yeah right,” Dean cries, lunging. But he’s too weak to fight Cas off. Cas easily grabs his arms and crosses them, squeezing a pressure point that makes Dean gasp and drop the shiny instrument. The man begins to cry as Cas lowers him to the ground. “This ain’t the first time… stupid fuckin’ mind games. I just wanna go home…”  
  
“Dean?” Cas says gently. “You are going home. See the guards outside the door? They’re all dead.”  
  
“I’m not stupid,” Dean spits out, his cheeks pressed to the dirty floor. “You’re gonna make me think I got a chance and then rip the rug out from under me.”  
  
Cas looks around helplessly. What the fuck did Alistair do to this man?  
  
“He wants me to kill myself. Leaves me here but… I gotta get out. Before he does something to…”  
  
Cas kneels next to Dean, helping him to sit up. “Does what, Dean?”  
  
Unfocused eyes look anywhere but at Cas, passing over Cas’ black uniform and landing on Cas’ gun. “You’re really a cop?” Dean asks weakly as if he still can’t believe it, another tear falling. Cas wants to wipe it away, wrap the man up and take the pain away. And that uncharacteristic feeling scares the shit out of him.  
  
He clears his throat but maintains a professional distance. “Yes, and I’m going to do everything I can to help you. We’ll get you pieced back together again.” Cas hesitates and adds, “Sam is waiting for you,” having been debriefed about everything there is to know about the missing person and his family.  
  
That seems to be the magic word. For the first time Cas sees hope, green eyes snapping up to look over Cas’ face. “Sam? You can take me to him?”  
  
“Let’s go and tell him you’re safe.” Cas clasps his communicator and presses once to signal he wants to talk.  
  
“Go ahead,” a voice crackles.  
  
Cas lets everyone know the victim has been found alive and that he needs backup to get him out safely. He knows that someone out there on the other end will be passing along the good news to Sam Winchester: that Dean Winchester has been saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if anything is... not correct. I am not entirely sure how an operation like this would be taken down. I was just free-writing and if I decided to ever do a full fic with this I would do a ton of research.
> 
> For what it is, I hope you enjoyed it! Tomorrow's word of the day... is gonna have some FEEEEEELS post-12X23.
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	19. A Fog Lifted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is affected by a witch's curse that allows him to see beyond the veil of death.  
> Timeline: this is set some time after 12x23. I do not mention Jack; he's not relevant to this story.  
> No S13 spoilers.
> 
> This is loosely inspired by a line of thinking from my husband's story Push (not required in order to read mine but it's great):  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/12388068
> 
> Promptober word of the day: CLOUD  
> Rating: Mature

Sam is gasping for breath by the time he reaches the Impala, hands shaking as he struggles to fit the key into the lock. As soon as he has the trunk open he’s grabbing for gas masks, slipping one over his head and tightening the straps even as he races back to the house and toward his brother.  
  
The opaque grey-white fog furls around furniture and creeps along the hallway, filling rooms with its nauseating bile-scent. Sam slams the front door shut as soon as he’s back in, hoping the fog doesn’t, or can’t, slip out into the neighborhood or other homes.  
  
He runs back to the last room he had seen Dean, finding his older brother collapsed on the floor in the kitchen.  
  
When Sam had first run out it had been by Dean’s order, leaving his brother in order to get the masks faster. And now Dean is unmoving, maybe even dead. There is no telling what curse the witch unleashed before making her getaway nor how much of it Dean has been breathing in.  
  
“Dean?” Sam says, his voice muffled by the gas mask. Sam drops to his knees and shakily slips the second mask onto Dean’s face, checks the fit, and feels his brother’s neck for a pulse.  
  
Sam doesn’t know what to do, falling back to sit on his heels. Dean is out cold, but alive, and the fog isn’t dissipating. The gas mask seems to be working for Sam because he doesn’t feel anything other than breathless and understandably upset.

  
The only thing he can do is get Dean and get out. Sam climbs to his feet and bears the unconscious weight of his brother, making sure the front door is shut tight when they leave the witch’s house.  
  
Sam sets Dean down next to the car so he can get the doors open, removing his mask with a gasp for fresh air and tossing it onto the floor behind the driver’s seat. Once Dean is deposited onto the back bench, Sam hightails it for their hotel so he can begin researching how to dissolve the magic before anyone else gets hurt.  
  
But first…  
  
“Dean? Dean, can you hear me?” Sam keeps yelling and talking to Dean as he drives.  
  
When he reaches the motel, Sam parks in front of their room so he can jump out and prop the door open. He looks around carefully but it doesn’t appear anyone is watching.  
  
“Dean?” Sam says, leaning over his brother to remove the gas mask. Red marks marr Dean’s face where the straps dug into pale flesh. Sam slaps his cheek lightly and then a little harder, earning a groan. “Oh thank fuck,” he breathes in relief. “Okay, okay, can you hear me? Wake up, man.”  
  
“Okay,” Dean says before he has a choking fit, rolling onto his stomach on the seat until his lungs are as clear as they’re gonna get.  
  
“Let’s get inside. We need to figure out what the hell we’re up against,” Sam says, backing up so Dean can pull himself out of the car.  
  
Once in the motel room Dean goes immediately for the bathroom sink to splash his face and drink handfuls of water from his cupped hands. Sam makes a face but doesn’t scold Dean for not washing his hands first. Kinda too late for it now…  
  
Sam sits at the table and pulls open his laptop. “Okay, talk to me. Tell me how you’re feeling since you were the one who got blasted with that fog,” he says as he starts up a search for curses.  
  
Dean rubs the back of his head and sits at the foot of his bed. “I told you to run for the masks as soon as I saw the cloud of smoke filling the place. It wasn’t like smoke from fire and it smelled rancid. I had the witch in my sights until that damn fog and next thing I knew I’m in the Impala. Other than feeling like I smoked ten packs of cigarettes, I feel okay. What about you?”  
  
“I’m good,” Sam says distractedly, reading a website that looks promising. “Okay, so that doesn’t give us a lot to go on. You think it was just nasty fog to distract us then? You’re not seeing flying monkeys, don’t wanna go on a killer rampage..?”  
  
“No, I’m good. What about you?”  
  
Sam screws up his face. “You already asked that and I’m fine.”  
  
Dean scoffs. “Wasn’t talkin’ to you. I was talkin’ to him.” Dean gestures toward the empty chair across from where Sam sits at the dining table.

"Of course I can see you," Dean says to no one.  
  
Sam looks over slowly but the chair is empty. He looks back at Dean, who appears to be listening intently to whatever his invisible friend is saying, shaking his head slowly.  
  
“That ain’t funny, Cas. I know you try to be funny and pull pranks from time-to-time but you suck at it... and that’s just mean,” Dean says.  
  
“Cas?” Sam asks incredulously. Dean thinks the invisible person he sees is Cas? “Dean, Cas is--”  
  
Dean gets up abruptly. “I’m gonna shower. You two keep working on this and Cas? Drop the Ghost gambit.”  
  
Sam watches Dean grab clothes from his duffel and head into the bathroom, the door shutting hard behind him. “What the fuck..?” Sam looks wildly around the room. “Cas? Are you here?”  
  
There’s no response. No flutter of papers, no pictures flying off the walls, no cold spots, nothing. Sam unfolds himself from his chair and gets out the EMF detector from the duffel Dean left on his bed. He sweeps around the room, watching the device with bated breath, but it doesn’t light up to indicate that a spirit is present.  
  
“Well, I think I know what the spell did,” Sam says dryly to himself. Sam starts a new search looking for hallucinogenic, airborne spells. He’s got at least three viable options when Dean comes out of the bathroom.  
  
Dean is staring hard at the seat across from Sam again and he throws his hands up. “Maybe you got whacked harder than you thought. You’re telling me you’re basically a ghost, Cas.”  
  
“Dean,” Sam starts seriously, “Cas isn’t here. I ran EMF and got nothing. There’s no spirit here.”  
  
“See, Cas? No EMF. You just proved my point, Sam.”  
  
“What is your point?" Sam asks in confusion. "I can’t-- Dean, I don’t see or hear Cas. You know why that is, right?”  
  
Dean looks between Sam and the empty chair, hands on his hips. “Okay, something is definitely wrong with you two. You,” Dean says, pointing to Cas, “are telling me you’re dead and basically haunting me. And you,” Dean says, turning to Sam, “are saying you don’t see Cas. Don’t you see what this means?”  
  
Sam nods sadly and puts a flat hand on the table, preparing himself to tell Dean the truth. “It means you’re hallucinating, Dean.”  
  
“Me? I’m not hallucinating jackshit. Clearly you two are!” Dean insists.  
  
Sam looks over to the empty chair and sighs heavily. He may have to play along just until he can find a cure. Or he can keep insisting on the truth. Dean is aggressively shoving dirty clothes into his duffel, his back turned.  
  
“Dean, Cas is dead. Lucifer stabbed him, remember?” Sam watches Dean stiffen, his hands slowing down for a few seconds before he continues his aggressive packing. “If you’re seeing him, and there’s no EMF, then that means you’re most likely hallucinating.”  
  
“No,” Dean snaps, whipping around. “Cas is right here. You’re telling me you really don’t see him? He can’t be-- he’s not--”  
  
“Dean, he is,” Sam insists sadly, watching his brother turn teary eyes to the empty seat.  
  
“No, Cas,” he says pitifully. “Then how come I see you? Are you… real?”  
  
Sam turns back to his laptop, fingers flying over the keys. Out of the three hits he got, one of the cures looks most promising. Temporary memory loss and hallucinations. First he’ll get Dean’s brain fixed and then they’ll go back to the house to do a reversal that should clear up any lingering fog. He needs to be quick.  
  
He glances up when Dean kneels on the floor before the chair and puts his head in his hands.  
  
“Dean? You okay?” Sam asks in concern. Dean doesn’t respond. “Hang in there. I just need to make sure I have the Latin right, get the supplies and then we can undo this.”  
  
“No,” Dean says sharply, lifting his head. “No, it’s really Cas, Sam. Whatever that witch did, whatever this is, it’s real. I know it’s real. He told me right away he was dead and I didn’t believe him. He knows he’s dead.”  
  
“There’s no EMF, remember?” Sam says gently. “If he were real then it--”  
  
“Not if he’s not here-here. Not if he’s where he is at and I can see through it, through whatever Kevin called it. The Veil, right?”  
  
Sam shakes his head sadly, going back to the spell and the ingredient list.  
  
“I don’t want to undo it, Sam,” Dean says hollowly. He’s staring at the empty chair again, like he’s listening. “He says he’s been watching over us but this is the first time he’s been able to make a connection." Dean looks back over at Sam to implore, "You can’t-- we can’t!”  
  
Sam gets up and gathers up the items they have between the room and the trunk. Dean can’t stop him because the cure is also airborne so he just needs Dean to breathe it in. Sam doesn’t have to explain that to his brother because the element of surprise may be his only chance. Dean will thank him later because he has to know Sam won’t let him live a life haunted by someone who isn’t really here.  
  
When Sam comes back into the motel room and begins setting up Dean starts to instantly harass him. “What if EMF doesn’t work on angels, huh? What if this spell let me see beyond or whatever?” When Sam only recites the Latin, Dean turns around. “Come on, Cas. Can’t you do something? Break a mirror or a lightbulb, anything? If you don’t show him you’re here he’s gonna zap you away.”  
  
“Dean, it’s time to say goodbye and let go. Say that Cas is real, right now,” Sam gestures in the general vicinity of where he thinks Cas could be. “You didn’t get a chance to say goodbye… or tell him other things… to his face.”  
  
Dean clenches his jaw, eyes hard, but when he turns away his gaze softens and he looks infinitely sad. Sam goes back to mixing and crushing ingredients into a chalice, glancing at Dean a few times to find his brother struggling to fight back tears and unable to speak.  
  
Sam should give him privacy but time isn’t in their favor. They still have a fog-filled house to check on. Striking a match, Sam gently says, “It’s now or never, Dean.”  
  
Dean looks desperately at Sam and back to the empty space. “Wait, wait. I, uh, I’m sorry. For everything.” There’s a long pause and Dean huffs, ducking his head. “Don’t say that,” Dean says weakly. He lifts his chin up. “But I guess if-- if this is my last chance then I hafta say... Cas, I--”  
  
The match is close to Sam’s fingertips now and he fumbles it, dropping the match into the bowl. The smoke billows up instantly and Dean’s attention snaps to Sam.  
  
“No, wait, Sam!” Dean yells mournfully, looking back to the room, his eyes flicking back and forth quickly but not landing anywhere to indicate that Cas is still with them.  
  
“Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I’m so, so sorry. I dropped it. I’m so sorry.”  
  
Dean covers his mouth with one hand and closes his eyes, bowing his head. After taking several deep breaths he turns red-rimmed eyes to Sam. “He was real, Sam. And if I saw through The Veil, or whatever, then that means--”  
  
Sam’s eyes light up. “That means that maybe we can get him back.”  
  
Dean nods once and his expression sets into hard determination. “Ain’t no ‘maybe’. We’re gonna get him back, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read my husband's first fanfic you should do so. He is adding to it soon:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/12388068
> 
> It is always super fun to write from Sam's POV. I don't do it enough and I wanted us all to be the third wheel with Sam here, so we don't get to see inside Dean's head. We only get to see what he chooses to show Sam.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	20. Not as They Seem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester, prisoner 503514, is woken from stasis by an alien masquerading as a human. What will happen to Dean when he finds out the prison ship had been destroyed and he's the only known survivor, alone with his new captor?
> 
> Promptober word of the day: DEEP  
> Rating: Mature

Dean licks his lips uselessly. His mouth and throat are so dry that he cannot properly wet them, his lungs feel like they’re on fire, while the rest of him shivers with a cold that goes deep into his bones.   
  
He’s on a flat metal slab with a white sheet pulled up to mid-abdomen, blinking up at a bright orb that is shining hot like a heat lamp.   
  
He lifts his heavy head from the table and peers around a large, round, empty room. It is stark white with no visible door and no window. There is nothing but the table, the sheet and Dean.  
  
Dean’s brow furrows as he tries to recall the last thing that happened to him. The very last thing he remembers is a mask being put over his face, putting him to sleep. Before that he remembers struggling as guards pinned him down. Before that… his sentence. He was going to be shipped off to the prisoner encampment on the planet Desmios.   
  
Dean groans and throws his head back against the slab. They must have arrived. Prisoners are put in stasis because it’s easiest for the long ride. The guards don’t have to feed them or worry about a revolt.

Dean is actually grateful he was knocked unconscious for the trip. He isn't sure he'd have been able to handle takeoff without drugs or heavy sedation.  
  
A whooshing sound interrupts Dean’s thoughts and he lifts his head again. He feels like his entire body weighs a ton, which is odd given that they’re in space. Perhaps this planet’s gravitational pull is stronger than Earth. Or maybe he’s just really fucking weak after who-knows-how-long of being in some hyper sleep.   
  
A door has appeared from within the smooth walls. Either a hologram or a sliding door meant to be camouflaged. Within that doorway is a figure that begins to walk toward Dean slowly. He cannot make out their face with the light in his eyes, not until the man steps right next to the metal table where Dean is laid out. Blue eyes peer down at Dean curiously.   
  
Nothing is said, only the staring. Dean clears his throat, thrown off by the intensity being directed at him. “What next?” he asks hoarsely.   
  
The man tilts his head, his expression blank. “What. Next.” He says the word haltingly, like he is trying to make sense of them.   
  
O-o-okay. Weird.   
  
“Yes, what’s next?” Dean can’t help getting snarky. He wouldn’t be Dean Winchester otherwise. “Do I get some fugly jumper to wear? A cell? Maybe some fucking water? I know I’m a prisoner but can’t be too much to ask for a drink.” Dean clears his throat again until he’s coughing fitfully.   
  
The man looks at Dean in surprise, his eyebrows lifted high. “Water,” he says. “Yes.”   
  
Dean mumbles, “What the fuck was that?” as he watches his captor disappear through the doorway. The man returns only a few seconds later, like a revolving door, with a sleek glass of water and approaches the table. Dean is either losing moments-of-time or there must be a sink right outside the door because that was freaky fast.   
  
Dean raises himself up on his elbows but it’s a struggle to get upright. The man places a hand mid-back against Dean’s bare skin and pushes, helping him up to sit. At that exact same time Dean can feel a hot tingle rip through his body from the point of contact. He gasps in shock, suddenly revived, like that annoying weight has been lifted.   
  
“What the fuck was that?”   
  
“Fuck. Was. That. You say that a lot,” the man says slowly, handing Dean the water that he is still holding in his other hand. He drops both hands back to his sides as he observes Dean.

“And you talk like a robot.” Dean takes a long drink and swallows. Considering what just happened he could have very well used some futuristic laser medicine therapy that he shot out of his hand, or whatever. “Wait, are you a robot?”

The man tilts his head again. “I am Malak. Castiel. And I have healed you.”

“I don't understand half of what you just said.”

The man hums to himself, still watching Dean. “Yes, your primitive mind does not absorb new language as quickly.”

Dean gapes at Malakelakel or whatever he called himself. “Primitive? New language? Are we supposed to learn a new language?” Dean groans. “I thought my school days were behind me.”

“Malak is my species. My designation is Castiel.” Castiel’s brows come together. “Name. My name is Castiel.”

Now Dean is officially freaked out. No one told him there would be androids or aliens or whatever. “Where is everybody else? Can I-- am I gonna get outta this room soon?”

“They are dead.”

Fear ignites in Dean’s belly and he almost drops the glass of water.

“You do not need to fear me,” Castiel says sincerely, placing a hand on the table next to Dean’s thigh. “It was not I who took down your ship.”

“Took down… the ship?” Dean repeats dumbly. Now who sounds like a monotone robot?

“Your pod was discovered and I have revived you. Unfortunately, all the others that I have found have been obliterated. As for communicating with you, I have been studying your language. Am I doing alright?”

“If everything is… gone… h--how are you studying the language?”

“You.”

“Me? What are you, some kinda alien mind-voyeur?”

“I am not… familiar... with that reference.” After another beat Castiel steps back and puts out his hands to show off his body, which is dressed similarly to something Dean would wear. No, exactly what Dean would wear.   
  
“Are those my clothes?” Dean asks, wrinkling his nose in confusion, clutching the sheet tighter around his naked waist..   
  
“All of this I learned from you. This form, this body, is even in your human likeness. I found the image of this man in your--”   
  
“Whoa, okay,” Dean says with a forced chuckle. He suddenly recalls exactly why Castiel looks familiar. The last, ahem, magazine Dean owned had a very attractive, dark-haired model that caught his special interest. Embarrassed, Dean stops Castiel from mentioning it out loud. “That’s alright, I get the picture.”   
  
“Precisely,” Castiel says. “From a picture. Come. I will show you around.”   
  
Ignoring the fact that Castiel basically just said he’s an alien imitating a human, and can read minds, Dean urges on with more pressing matters. “Uh, Cas? I don’t have clothes.”   
  
“Yes,” Cas says. “What I derive from you is that humans like being naked… in private. But you wish to wear clothes when you step outside of your private quarters.” Cas nods once and reaches out to touch Dean’s forehead with two fingers before Dean can lecture Cas about touching other people without permission.   
  
There’s a rustle and Dean is clothed, right down to the socks and boots. He looks down and pats himself, looking up at Cas in a mixture of shock, fear and awe. “How did you do that?” he asks, as he hops off the table and bends his knees a few time to loosen up. “It’s like…”   
  
“Magic,” Cas says with a twitch at the left corner of his mouth, finishing Dean’s thought..   
  
“Okay, the mind reading shit? You gotta stop doing that. It’s rude,” Dean says in annoyance. He follows Cas out of the white room to a white corridor that seems to stretch as far as Dean’s eye can see. “Where are we?”   
  
“Shamayim.”   
  
“Seriously, dude, I’m not gonna remember that.”   
  
“It is alright. Dean.”   
  
“Oh, so you know my name? Did you steal that from my brain while I was out, too?”   
  
“It was on the placard on your pod. Dean Winchester. Prisoner 503514.”   
  
They come to an intersection and Cas leads Dean down to the right. There appears to be a big open room at the end.   
  
“So what happens? You take me back to Earth? Take me on to Desmios? Or, uh, am I a prisoner here?”   
  
“You are not a prisoner here, Dean. I can see inside of you and you are a good man. You should not have been held captive and imprisoned. I have judged you more fairly than your own kind and you are free now.” Castiel looks over at Dean. “I do not fear you; you do not need to fear me.”   
  
Dean can’t stop the lump from forming in his throat and he blinks rapidly as they step into what must be the control center. It is filled with buttons in an array of colorful light, some blinking, some muted. The distraction helps Dean to rein in the emotions threatening to spill.   
  
Castiel looks uncertain and awkward for the first time and Dean has to wonder if Castiel can sense what he’s feeling. He had told Dean to not be afraid the moment Dean’s fear had spiked back in that white room.   
  
Dean is busy eyeing a console when he hears the scrape of metal-on-metal. He looks up and about stumbles backward on his ass.   
  
“Dean?” Castiel asks as Dean begins to hyperventilate, backing up until his back is pressed against a wall.   
  
“I just-- I hate heights, man.”   
  
Castiel looks toward the enormous window he’s just opened up, showing off the expanse of space before them. They’re on a fucking spaceship, not a planet. Not solid ground.   
  
“I am a very experienced flyer, I assure you. I have stopped looking in your mind but I can still… sense… your feelings. I do not understand them. Explain.”   
  
“I’m… good. I’m fine,” Dean forces out. “Can we just close that, though?”   
  
“Of course, Dean.” Castiel presses a few buttons and the scraping metal sound reverberates through Dean’s teeth, setting his nerves on edge.   
  
Once it is closed he feels a little better but not much. “When were you gonna tell me we’re whizzing through space? And where’s the rest of the crew?”   
  
Castiel looks uncomfortable. “It is just me. I was put on this mission when my people got word that your ship was attacked.”   
  
“A mission? What kinda mission?”   
  
“To pick up any survivors. To bring them back to become slaves.” Castiel holds a hand up when Dean starts sputtering because a prisoner is one thing; they still have rights. But a slave? “I have seen into your heart and mind, I have seen a different way. A better way. I do not agree with my brothers, which is why I will not hand you over to them.”   
  
“Why do I have a feeling that you’re putting your ass on the line by doing that?”   
  
Castiel’s expression changes ever so slightly, firm and unreadable. He presses a few more buttons, one of his brows arched, appearing for all the world to be domineering and in control of a situation that feels completely out-of-control. Blue eyes raise up and meet Dean. “Because I am.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me for ending it like that, ha ha ha!
> 
> Desmios, name of prison planet = Captive  
> Malak, Cas' alien species = Angels  
> Shamayim, name of Cas' ship = Heaven
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	21. A Landing Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel pilots passenger airplanes during the week and spends his weekends in hotels; a modern day nomad. He has no roots, nowhere to call home until he meets the airport bartender, Dean. Dean offers to let him come and stay at his place whenever Cas is in town. They each begin to anticipate when Cas gets to come "home" as they get to know one another in the short time they share together.
> 
> Oh, did I mention Dean lives in a tiny one-bedroom apartment? The pull-out couch only serves as useful for so long...
> 
> Promptober word is FURIOUS.  
> Rating: Teen+

Castiel is perturbed but this isn't his first layover and it certainly won't be the last. Honestly he suspected this would be possible when he was watching the weather report before work, but still he clung to faith, --hope,-- whatever that he'd get the plane off the ground before the snowstorm hit.

He's been to this airport enough to know exactly where to go to ease his annoyance, relax and kill time. Because right now he's got a whole lot of time.

His luggage rolls and skips over the spaces between tiles on the floor as he slowly makes his way to the airport bar, past frazzled parents, screaming children, bored teens, impatient people of all ages and the occasional sleeping bodies camping out along the walls or in chairs.

The bar is surprisingly devoid of people, most of them wanting to stick close to their gates or, if lucky enough, being ushered to hotels before the worst hits. Castiel has no idea how long he'll be stuck here, which is where most of his attitude lay. But he does suppose part of his being stuck here is his fault, not that he regrets his choice.

“What can I get ya?” a deep, warm voice asks in a friendly tone.

Castiel is too busy fiddling with his luggage to look up, trying to tuck it between him and the counter, when he says, “Whatever beer you've got on tap is fine.”

Satisfied his bag is secure and won't be easily snatched (though who would be stupid enough since everyone is seemingly stuck here) he looks up at the retreating back of the bartender as he calls out to someone in the back, probably a coworker.

The man turns back to grab a tall, clear glass, whistling to himself as he fills it up with the amber ale.

Castiel can't help but admire his beauty. The man is very handsome and he probably knows it. Working at a bar like this, where there's a steady flow of customers, he probably gets hit on obscenely often. Which means it's the last thing Castiel wants to do. Pity.

“Here ya go. Let me know if ya need anything else,” the man says.

Castiel’s eyes flicker to his name tag and back up to green eyes with golden specks,  _killmenow_. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean looks at him in surprise but Castiel’s mouth is busy taking in a refreshing and much-needed mouthful of beer so he looks again, pointedly, at the simple plastic rectangle pinned to Dean’s shirt.

Dean rolls his eyes and laughs, relaxing against the counter like he's in no hurry to go help the other two patrons staring blankly at the phones in their hands with their drinks nearby.

“I forget about this all the time,” Dean gestures toward the tag. “Previous bar I worked at didn't require ‘em but I suppose here it's part of the commercial package.”

Castiel sets his glass down and licks the foam off of his lips, out of habit, but doesn't miss the fact that his tongue catches Dean’s attention.

“Yes, I actually just put mine away.” Castiel leans in and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I didn't want to be ambushed by angry passengers on my way over here.”

Dean rests his arms on the bar and imitates Castiel’s stage whisper. “Oh yeah? You work here, too?”

“Well I work for Fly USA, not this specific airport. I'm a pilot.”

Dean makes a face but Castiel can't decide if it looks like constipation or disgust. Perhaps it is both. Dean resumes in a normal volume, “Not like you control the weather.”

“Mm, true, but you wouldn't believe the things I'm blamed for, or what the the stewards and security have to deal with. It can be daunting. Hence, changing my clothes as soon as I clock out.”

Dean starts messing with stuff behind the bar but doesn't make a move to go far nor stop talking. “So, doesn't the airport have accommodations for pilots when shit like this happens?”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, as well as for passengers. Unfortunately, as you can see, hotels are booked or there wouldn't be so many people out there waiting.”

“Yeah, but aren't you guys priority since you gotta fly?”

Castiel's eye twitches so he takes another drink before answering. “I, uh, gave my room to a family. Their child has medical needs and it would be too stressful for them to remain here for what may be an extended layover.”

Instead of gushing about what a saint Castiel must be and trying to give him a hero complex, Dean simply smiles and says, “That's cool, man.” Castiel relaxes in relief.

Dean reaches under the bar for a washcloth and goes about the business of cleaning up, leaving Castiel to his half-finished beer and the inevitability of pulling a novel from his bag.

Some few minutes later a blonde woman breezes in from the back, from the kitchen no doubt, and greets Dean with a hug. She's bundled up and pulling gloves on.

“My mom just messaged me to  _‘git yer buns home quick’_ because it's about to pick up in an hour. You better hurry up and get outta here yourself or you'll be camping here.”

“Yeah, almost done. Just need to close the till. I'll see you soon, Jo.” Dean leans in to kiss her cheek but then rubs his knuckles over her head.

“Ouch, jerk! Here I am trying to be nice and you noogie me? Payback’s a bitch, Winchester. Remember that.”

Dean playfully scoffs. “You're all bark and no bite, like a little terrier. Now go on, git. Text me when you get home so I don't worry about you all night.”

“Sure thing, Dad,” the Jo girl says mockingly before she exits the way she came.  

Dean tells the other patrons he has to lock up so they pay and grudgingly leave. Castiel bookmarks his spot and is taking the last sip of his beer when Dean comes up.

“How much?” Castiel pulls out his wallet but Dean is watching the other patrons leave.

Castiel glances over and looks back at Dean but it's only once they're alone that Dean speaks again. “You work here, right? Can I see your security badge?”

Castiel furrows his brow but obliges. He can see Dean’s lips moving as he tries to read his name. Castiel snatches the badge back. “Why'd you wish to see it?”

Dean shrugs half-heartedly. “Just checkin’ because if you want to chill here while I lock up then I'm not opposed to the company.” Without waiting for a response he walks out from behind the bar to lower and lock the gate so people won't wander in.

And oh how Castiel wishes he hadn't done that. Walk out from behind the bar, that is. He couldn't see Dean’s lower half behind the counter and he wishes he hadn't seen it now. His legs are endearingly bow-legged and he saunters around like a cowboy, all strut and confidence.

Castiel clears his throat and looks away before he’s caught unashamedly checking Dean out. What’s the harm? He probably won’t ever see the man again and it isn’t like Castiel will act on anything. Dean walks back around to count money so he can leave and Castiel tries to pay again. “How much did I owe for the beer?”

“Don't sweat it, Cas.”

Castiel is amused by the nickname, most likely given because Dean wasn't sure how to pronounce his given name. “Thank you, for the beer. And it’s Cas-tee-el.”

Dean grins wickedly at him from under eyelashes. “Yeah, I like Cas. If it's okay I'll call you that,” he says before he goes back to counting. Cas shrugs. Again, not like it matters for one night and it is much better than the  _‘Cassie’_ everyone else tries to call him. He’s not a little girl with pigtails, for crying out loud.

Castiel gives Dean the quiet he needs so he doesn't mess up, reopening his book to where he left off. He's so engrossed he doesn't notice when Dean is finished until he is slipping into a black coat and wrapping a green scarf around his neck next to Cas’ chair.

“Thank you for allowing me a moment’s peace before heading back out there,” Castiel says, indicating with a tilt of his head that he meant the airport.

“What? You’re gonna stay here? At the airport?” Dean asks incredulously.

“Well, yes. I thought I'd try to find a quiet space and hopefully rest for the night.” Castiel gets off the barstool and stretches a little on the balls of his feet and then fixes his shirt. “Could you point me to a way out since you locked the entrance?”

Dean hesitates and bites his lip. “Uh, you know, you  _could_ do that or…”

“Or?”

“Or come with me? I mean, I don't normally do this and you don't know me from Adam but-”

Castiel quickly interrupts. He knows there's a stigma with pilots and stewardesses, that they sleep around with each other or people they meet along the way, but he's just not that kinda guy. He may look but he doesn't touch.

“I'm, um, flattered but I'm not- I mean, I don't-”

“Dude, I've got a pull-out couch,” Dean blurts out, holding his hands up. “No funny business. Just offering you a place to sleep so, ya know, when you get back in the air you're rested enough to keep people from plunging to certain death.”

“Oh. That's very kind of you.” Castiel pulls the handle up on his luggage and then gets a mischievous smirk and lowers his voice. “How do you know you can trust me? Maybe I'm dangerous.”

Dean laughs, loudly. “I work at bars. Pretty sure I've bounced guys bigger than you.” Dean blushes when Castiel arches a brow. “Well, not bounced like… you know what, shut it.” Dean's voice only holds embarrassment and no malice. “Come on, lets go, Cas.”

They go out through the kitchen, Dean shutting appliances and lights off. He gives Cas a once-over. “You got a coat?”

“No, I wasn't intending on going anywhere but I'll be alright.”

“Like hell, lets check lost-and-found. We still got time.” Dean veers down another corridor toward a security office. “My buddy, Benny, works here. Gotta be a coat you can borrow. We'll just bring it back later.”

“Dean, you're cutting it close, brotha,” a linebacker of a man drawls when they get ushered into a nondescript room with a couple of desks and worn-out chairs. “So I guess you ain't here to shoot the breeze.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm goin’ but do you have a coat my friend, Cas, could borrow? He's a pilot so you know he's good for bringing it back.”

Benny gives Cas a barely concealed look of contempt. “If you say so, Dean. I trust ya.”

They find a terribly puffy and enormous and very orange coat, to Benny’s and Dean’s delight. Castiel groans but puts it on so they don't waste anymore time.

“I don't see how anyone could've missed seeing this monstrosity when they were getting ready to leave. It's as bright as a traffic cone.”

“Pretty sure it must've been left on purpose,” Dean jokes.

After bidding Benny goodbye they head out into bitter cold and swirling snow. Castiel carries his luggage from the door, through several dozen rows of cars, to the sleek, black one that Dean stops at, grinning and patting her trunk affectionately as he unlocks it for Cas’ bag.

“Cas, meet Baby. Baby, this is Cas.” His voice is thick with pride.

“She is very beautiful, Dean,” Cas offers sincerely, using one of his puffy sleeve to start brushing snow off of the side windows. He gets the impression that people’s reaction to the car means a lot to him judging by the dopey smile on Dean’s face.

Castiel is rewarded with a hearty, “Damn straight,” from Dean as he gets in and starts the engine, allowing the windshield wipers to remove more snowfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slow burn from-friends-to-lovers story. I actually have a lot written but it won't be finished and published until after I'm done with SPNReverseBang, NaNoWriMo and Pinefest. 
> 
> If you'd like to read this one, and others, please go to my profile and subscribe. It is a TopCas/BottomDean fic with Explicit rating.
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	22. Westward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Oregon Trail in 1848 is a dangerous place for Dean and Cas.  
> If you've ever played the game, I hope you enjoy this nostalgic nugget.
> 
> Promptober word of the day is, tada: TRAIL  
> Rating: Teen+

Independence, Missouri  
May 1, 1848  

Dean and Cas step inside the general store, disrupting the dust motes drifting in the sunlight. The high noon sun has sucked the moisture from the air, leaving them no choice but to cough in the dustiness billowing around them.  
  
“The first thing we gotta do is get supplies,” Dean tells Cas once his eyes have adjusted to the dim interior of the store. “We only have so much money to spend so what's most important?”

Cas looks around and contemplates everything before him. “Food, medical supplies. Of course, we’ll also need to purchase oxen.”  
  
“Should we get four or six?” Dean asks before he answers his own question. “Let’s do four. We can always purchase more oxen along the way if anything happens to ‘em.”

Cas peruses the hardware section of the store, the clerk waiting patiently for them to finish their order. “What about spare wheels and yokes?”

“Yeah, yeah. Get all of that.” Dean continues to add things for their trip like bedding and extra clothes.

“I’m worried we'll weigh down the wagon too much,” Cas says, frowning as he looks over the supplies.

“The oxen can handle it, trust me. We need plenty of bullets to hunt with,” Dean adds. “Get fifty boxes. This is a long ass journey and we need to be able to hunt.”

Cas sweeps a hand to gesture at the food. “I don't think we'll need all these perishables if we are going to hunt.”

“Fine, we’ll put some back but I gotta have my coffee and we definitely need salt to preserve meat. Let's add up what we got so far.”

After they make their purchases they load up their covered wagon, adding a few people to their party to ride along and then they're on their way to Oregon. It'll take three days to get to the Kansas River if they take their time and don't wear the oxen out right outta the gate.

Since they didn't bring much in the way of food they decide to hunt the first chance they get, which isn’t too far outside of Independence. There's nothing but crickets for so long that Cas grows impatient and wants to move along.

Nearby Dean says, “It doesn't have to be bison or deer. If you see a squirrel then get it, Cas.”

So they wait. And wait. Until a squirrel finally appears at the same time as a deer. Of course deer means more meat so Cas naturally takes aim, fires… and misses.

The deer skitters off, leaving the squirrel to run in frantic, frenzied circles in the aftermath of the noisy gunshot.

“It's too fast! It won't-- I can't get it.” Cas closes an eye as he looks down the barrel and aims, missing the squirrel.

“Here, lemme try,” Dean says. He takes the rifle but the squirrely has vanished. Not much later Dean smugly takes down two deer that appear. Their traveling party eats and rests by starlight before resuming their journey onward until the Kansas River looms before them.  
  
“It looks like it’s too deep for the oxen to cross,” Dean says, looking out and over the water. “We’re gonna have to take the ferry, Cas.” He gestures toward a line of other wagons waiting in line for the ferry.   
  
Cas groans. “It’s going to take two days and cost us money.”   
  
“Well it’s better than drowning and losing supplies.”   
  
Cas grudgingly agrees. They pay the fee and board the ferry with their party, their oxen and the wagon. After two days they’re back on the trail when a wheel spoke breaks and they lose some supplies.   
  
“This is frustrating,” Cas says. “When do we make town?”   
  
“Fort Kearney is maybe ten days out? Eight if we pick up the pace but that means we risk losing more wheels, and that ain’t countin’ the fact we have another river to ford.”   
  
“Alright,” Cas sighs. “How much food do we have left? Perhaps we should hunt. I really would like to succeed at that.”   
  
“We have fifty pounds, looks like. Between five of us, if we eat meagerly, should last us until Kearney but we’ve got the bullets and you apparently need the practice so let’s hunt.”   
  
They set out together and finally see bison; big, fat bison that provide a lot of meat and move slow enough for Cas to shoot. It takes some time to skin and preserve the meat before they return to the wagon to continue to Blue River.   
  
  
  
Lebanon, Kansas   
October 22, 2016   
  
“Oh shit, I got bit by a rattlesnake,” Dean cries suddenly. “What do we do for that? Anything?”   
  
Cas doesn’t hesitate to suggest, “Suck the venom out.”   
  
“We can’t suck the venom out,” Dean says incredulously. “That’s not an option.”   
  
“You knew this was a treacherous journey before we left, Dean,” Cas says calmly, looking over at the other man. “I’m afraid if we do not treat this…”   
  
“Shit, Mikey is dead. Cholera. What the fuck?” Dean says, squinting at the monitor. “He was fine just a few minutes ago.”   
  
“Sometimes I think you take this too seriously,” Cas says with an eye roll. “Oh look, Dean Winchester has died from dysentery.”   
  
“Not cool, man.” Dean crosses his arms and huffs.   
  
“This does not make any sense. If you were to die then it should have been the bite that did it. You were not even sick.”   
  
Dean sighs and leans forward, bumping shoulders with Cas. “Yeah, well, what even is that?”   
  
“Painful stomach cramps and diarrhea.” Cas says matter-o-factly, typing something out. “Bloody diarrhea.”   
  
“Ew, seriously?" Dean says, his face screwed up in disgust. "What’re you doing?”   
  
“What do you want on your tombstone?”   
  
Dean grins at Cas. “Don’t you know the joke?” Cas shakes his head. “Oh come on! You gotta put something obnoxious. Like ‘mushrooms and green peppers’.”   
  
“I do not understand--”   
  
The door behind them swings open and Sam pokes his head in. “What’re you two doing in my room?”   
  
“Showing Cas the finer things in life,” Dean says wistfully, “from an era long ago--”   
  
“He means The Oregon Trail. From not that long ago,” Cas says dryly. “The 1990’s.”   
  
“Man, Cas, you’re no fun. You scowled practically the whole time.”   
  
“That is because this game allows for very little manipulation nor does it allow me to aid in the prevention of injury and illness. If I would’ve just been allowed to suck the venom out…”  
  
“I didn’t even die from the snakebite so your point is a moot… point,” Dean throws back. “Apparently I died from the worst stomach virus ever.”   
  
“Whoa, guys, chill out. Just a game,” Sam says with a chuckle.     
  
Cas carries on as if it really does matter. “And we barely made it a week before you were dead. Is it even possible to get to Oregon alive at the rate this game is played?”   
  
"Probably not. I can't remember if I ever made it now that you mention it."  
  
Cas bites his lip and stares at the old computer that Dean had found at a yard sale and had repaired. The old floppy disc containing the game had popped free once the the computer had turned on, instigating this whole session of the most frustratingly slow game Cas has ever played.   
  
“Maybe we should find a different game?” Cas suggests.   
  
“Pssh, you just don’t have my imagination. When I play it’s like I’m there.”   
  
Cas levels Dean with a look that tells him he's not falling for his bullshit. "I'd much rather play something that truly allows the player to feel like a part of the time period but also allows the gamer to do something other than sit around and watch people die, powerless to stop it.”   
  
Dean nods slowly and concedes. “Point taken.”   
  
Sam leaves them to argue between Skyrim and Call of Duty, Dean leaving the desk chair in favor Sam's bed, controller in hand as Cas flops down beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were not in elementary school in the 1990's then you may have missed THE game that was in almost every classroom. I remember the big discolored Apple computers, the pixelated graphics, trying so very hard to make it to Oregon alive. They've updated the game several times and there's an app for it but the original resonates deeply for those of us who got to play it in its infancy.
> 
> We seriously thought we were so funny and clever when we'd list pizza toppings for our tombstones when a character would die.
> 
> Of course, it was a crappy game, lol. But the nostalgia is so strong that it doesn't matter. I'd play the shit out of it again if I could. Compared to the other games mentioned at the end, we've come a long way in how involved players can be in virtual reality.
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	23. A Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has run out of clean laundry and ends up having to impose on his neighbor since the entire apartment complex must share the facilities. It's all going well until Cas spies Dean's lacy underwear.
> 
> You all can thank my husband for this idea. He was the muse, I wrote it out.  
> Thanks, ComposerGhost!
> 
> Promptober word of the day: JUICY  
> Rated: Mature

Dean bypasses the overflowing hamper, almost tripping on a t-shirt, and goes straight for his dresser. It’s Friday night and he’s ready to go out and find some fun. But the drawer slides open, too easily from the lack of clothes weighing it down, and he only finds an old pair of sweatpants. Dean groans. His Friday plans have just taken a turn for the lonely and boring.  
  
All six tenants in his apartment complex share a laundry room in the basement. His assigned day is Wednesday but he had missed it, thinking he had plenty to carry him through. It isn’t like everyone is doing laundry all night on their designated day so whoever has Friday surely isn’t going to be hogging the washer and dryer at prime party time.  
  
Dean gathers all of his laundry into the hamper and shoves it all down before he hesitates over what he’s wearing. He’s got on his favorite jeans but they should be washed and can’t wait until Wednesday. He goes back to his drawer and shakes out the old pair of sweats, trading them out over his body and punching the jeans into the hamper until everything mostly fits.  
  
Dean drags his load down the stairs and pokes his head into the little room to make sure it isn’t occupied. The washer and dryer are both empty and the room is silent as a church at midnight.  
  
He fills the washer with as much as he can and gets it going, setting a timer on his phone to come back down when it is time to switch clothes to the dryer. There’s no way he’s going to sit here and wait when he’s got Netflix upstairs.  
  
A little while later, when Dean is bent over and pulling dry clothes out of the dryer to fold and place into a basket when he hears a noise behind him.  
  
“My apologies. I… didn’t realize anyone was in here,” a deep voice says behind Dean.  
  
“Yeah, sorry. I missed my day and didn’t think anyone would mind,” Dean says loudly because he’s still bent over to doesn’t want his voice to be muffled, lost in the metal drum. He quickly pulls out the rest of his stuff without folding it so he can get out of the person’s way.  
  
When he turns around Dean’s night goes from bad to worse because it’s  _him_ , the cute guy on the second floor. And it must be Castiel Novak’s day for laundry (Dean knows his name because of the communal mailbox) because he’s got on casual wear and is holding a basket of clothes against his hip.  
  
At Cas’ feet is a really fat, grey cat that looks like it’s face got smashed flat, rubbing up against his legs. Cas is watching Dean curiously with a little bit of a head tilt like he’s trying to figure something out.  
  
“I’ll just get this stuff in the dryer,” Dean says, transferring damp clothing to the empty dryer. Even though he doesn’t look angry, Dean apologizes again as he slams the dryer door shut and it’s rhythmic tumbling sound fills the room. “Uh, sorry, again.”  
  
The man waves Dean off. “It’s fine,” he says, stepping up beside Dean with an amused side-eye, tossing his clothes into the washing machine.  
  
“I’m just gonna finish folding these and then take them up,” Dean says, watching Cas carefully measure out liquid detergent. “If I’m still here when yours is done I can switch it for you…”  
  
“That’s quite alright. I don’t like to leave my laundry unattended. I can read just as easily down here as I can upstairs,” Cas says, flicking the dial and starting up the machine. At the bottom of his basket is a book and he takes it over to a chair in the corner to sit down and read, eyes glancing to Dean in question every few minutes.  
  
Dean uses the small folding table to begin taking out warm articles of clothing, folding them and humming to himself. He gets lost in the song in his mind, hips swaying, a few words sung under his breath. But he hesitates when he comes to a piece of lace.  
  
Hoping Cas doesn’t see the panties, Dean shoves them down the side of the basket next to his already folded items and glances over his shoulder to find Cas is squinting at his ass. Shit. He probably saw the underwear and now he’s trying to figure out if Dean has a pair on right now.  
  
Dean returns to his clothes, face heated in embarrassment. Once the last piece is folded, Dean stacks the remaining piles into his basket and turns around, leaning against the table. The cat jumps up and Dean absently pets her. Him? Her?  
  
“What’s your cat’s name?” Dean asks conversationally, scratching the fuzzy thing’s throat.  
  
“Ember,” Cas replies. “She usually stays up in the apartment but when I come down to do laundry I bring her along. She has caught a few mice down here before so she earns her keep.” Cas smirks.  
  
Dean chuckles and crosses his arms, ignoring her in favor of getting to know his neighbor better. They’ve been neighbors for months and this is the first chance he’s gotten to talk to him.  
  
It’s a little weird at first because Cas seems to be standoffish and Dean a little nosey while not giving up much about himself. But they quickly find common interest in Elder Scrolls.  
  
Dean is waving a hand emphatically, about what exactly he doesn’t even remember, when he catches a flash of pink and grey out of the corner of his eye when Ember drops off the table. She had been curled up on the table behind him and decided she was ready to get down and explore…  
  
Or so Dean thought…  
  
“Looks like Ember found something other than a mouse today,” Cas says as he leans down to her. “Bad kitty, you can’t just get in people’s laund-- oh.” He holds up  _pink-fucking-lace_.  
  
Dean can’t move and Cas is just holding it up between thumb-and-forefinger, his cheeks pinkening. Dean finally snaps out of it and embarrassingly plucks it from Cas’ hand.  
  
“I, um--”  
  
Cas shakes his head. “So sorry she got that.” He bends down to scoop up his cat and hold it like a baby. “Your girlfriend is blessed to have someone help her with the laundry,” Cas says lightly, scratching at the damn furball who purrs and looks wholly smug as it stares at Dean.  
  
“Girlfriend? I don’t have a…”  
  
“Oh, I just thought that because you were wearing those pants and then the,” Cas gestures to the basket behind Dean, “pink thing…”  
  
Dean looks down at his pants. “What? What about them?” He looks up to find pink cheeks turning darker.  
  
“Well I thought they belonged to a woman, that maybe you were borrowing them from a girlfriend, because they say JUICY across the back.”  
  
In mild horror Dean twists his torso to try and look behind himself, at his own ass. Sure enough he can make out the tip of the Y on the right side. He twists back around to Cas to find the other man fighting to hold back a laugh, a fist pressed to his lips as he gently bounces that infernal cat in his other arm.  
  
Dean bursts out laughing. “No, these are mine, all of it is mine.” It has been so long since these pants have seen the light of day that Dean had forgotten all about them. He bought them because they were fucking comfortable.   
  
Cas’ brows rise, wrinkling his forehead, a smile slowly creeping. He starts laughing, harder and harder, until the cat spazzes and jumps out of his arm, both men doubling over in a renewed fit as her tail puffs up triple in size and she darts out of the room.  
  
Dean laughs harder when he realizes he's been shimmying his ass as he folds laundry while Cas stared at him. “You were,” Dean gasps, “checking out my ass.”  
  
Cas’ laugh dies down to a chuckle. “Uh, yeah, maybe. Kind of hard to miss it with those bedazzled pink rhinestones spelling out JUICY.” Cas tilts his head. “So when you said it’s all yours you mean… those, too?” he asks, indicating the panties.  
  
Dean sobers a little and bites his lip, glancing at the laundry behind him. His expression darkens. The last thing he wants is to be made fun of so he grabs the basket and holds it in front of him defensively, unwilling to answer the question. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your book and laundry.”  
  
The dryer's buzzer sounds out, deafeningly loud in the small room, and Dean cringes. He forgot he has another load. He decides he'd rather just grab it all now than have to come back down with an empty basket. Crouching down, he pulls out the hot clothing to pile up on top. He can deal with folding it all upstairs.  
  
Cas steps forward, close to Dean. “I like them,” he says huskily, reaching down to pick up a black pair that had tumbled off of the overflowing basket, holding them out for Dean.  
  
Dean twists his body where he’s still crouched in front of the dryer and meets honest blue eyes, gently taking the underwear from Cas’ fingers. “Thanks,” Dean murmurs and Cas straightens back up. “You know, doing laundry wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for Friday night. Whaddya say we finish yours and make some new Friday plans?”  
  
Cas smiles slowly. “I’d love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After they switch Cas' wash to the dryer they come upstairs and play Parcheesi and have a pillow fight.
> 
> I kid, I kid.
> 
> We all know Dean modeled a pair for him. Now the question is... did he show off the pink or black?
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	24. Colorblind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this world, everyone who has a soulmate sees in color. Everyone else sees in shades of grey. Imagine Dean's surprise when he wakes up one day to find color slipping away.
> 
> Promptober word of the day: BLIND  
> Rating: Mature

Dean never really believed in the whole soulmate thing, never really tried to find The One. Not until the day he woke from a nightmare and his world began to turn grey.

Everyone who has a soulmate sees the world in color. And when they meet, there is an instant connection, a bond. It's the kinda thing that everyone tries to explain but can't. Basically, your gut just knows. At least, that's what Dean has been told. 

So why not look for his soulmate? Because he's seen too many people’s lives dim, literally. They set themselves up for heartbreak and spend the rest of their lives in shades of grey. Because when your soulmate passes away, color drains away as well.

Dean has been able to see in color for as long as he can remember. And because of that there has always been a constant thrum in the back of his mind that his soulmate is okay because he can see pinks and greens and blues…

But this morning he wakes up and his green couch looks odd. He rubs tired eyes, still a bit discombobulated from the bad dream, and steps closer. He reaches out to touch the fabric and then pulls back as if scalded when his brain catches up and tells him what’s off.

His heart begins to beat painfully. Something is wrong.

The walls are still a soft yellow but that doesn't mean much if his green couch is grey.

With shaky hands he dials Sam. His brother knows more about this stuff and could help him. Is Dean’s soulmate dead? Dying? Can he afford the colorblind reversal therapy if he loses color? Why is he only seeing some things in grey?

“Sam,” Dean sighs in relief when his brother answers. “I-- I need your help.”

“This better be important. Helping you decide where to have lunch later today is hardly--”

“Sam, I'm going colorblind,” Dean blurts out as he hurries to get ready, pressing his phone against his ear with a shoulder. He doesn't have time to waste hemming and hawing.

There's a delayed reaction as Sam processes that implication. “Shit. So you just woke up and you're like Dorothy before the tornado dumped her in Oz?”

“No, it's just a few things. I can still see yellows, blues, reds. I can't see green apparently.”

“Huh, so you still see primary colors but not their blends. Okay, this may be a good thing. I mean, not a good-good thing. But not so bad. Your soulmate might be hurt, maybe? I don't know what else it could be.”

“Hurt?” Dean hasn't even met her and the thought makes him stomach churn. “How do I find her?”

“Wait, you wanna find her?” Sam asks, and Dean can hear his brother’s barely suppressed excitement.

“Wouldn't you, if you thought they were dying and you'd never see the same?” Dean asks, belying any actual concern he feels for her well-being. The truth is he’s worried for his soulmate but Sam doesn’t need to know that. “I mean, we're talking expensive treatments to fix it if I ever wanna see color.”

“Sure,” Sam says in the patronizing way of his, in disbelief. Okay so maybe Dean isn’t as good at lying about this as he thought. Or Sam just knows him better than Dean knows.

Dean clears his throat. “So how do I find her? She could live in Timbuktu for all I know.”

“Start local and check hospitals, maybe. Honestly, Dean, if she hasn't looked for you and you haven't looked for her after all this time…”

“Yeah, yeah. Still,” Dean says, unable to finish the sentence or explain the devastation and regret he feels now. For all he knows she married someone else. Then again, she could be all alone, hurt and dying, and all because he’s been a stubborn ass.

“Look, most people end up in the same area by the time they're 25, naturally gravitating toward one another if at all possible. You're 30 so she is probably local.”

Dean pulls socks on and hesitates over his next question. One glance at the clock on his nightstand and he rushes on. “Can-- do people ever dream about their soulmate, or what their soulmate goes through?”

“I've heard of it. Some people have an extremely strong connection.” After a beat Sam asks, “Why?”  
  
“Nothing. I’m gonna go. I’ll text or call if I figure anything out.” Dean hangs up and slips into his jacket, pocketing his phone and keys. He runs into the bathroom real quick and as he washes his hands he looks up in the mirror and startles. His green eyes look back at him in grey.  
  
“Shit,” he mumbles to himself. It’s disconcerting to think everything he knows is going to change. Unless…  
  
Unless his soulmate pulls through. Dean thinks back on his dream, which is already fading but the bitter taste of fear hasn’t left him. A car accident with someone vaguely familiar. Except that person was a man.  
  
Dean goes down to his car and decides to visit the closest hospital. He isn’t sure if protocol will even let him near anyone. But maybe if he gets close enough to his soulmate then maybe his spidey senses will tingle, or whatever.  
  
He’s almost to the first hospital when he suddenly detours, bypassing St. Joseph’s in order to visit Sacred Heart. He can’t explain it but he just knows St. Joseph’s is gonna be a dead-end.  
  
For the remaining ten minutes of the drive Dean calls into work and takes a sick day and then argues with himself that this is stupid. His soulmate may not want him around. He is only driven by the urge _to be there_.  
  
“Well, ya never wanted to be there before, Bucko,” Dean mutters to himself as he squints at the signs that are supposed to make it easier for hospital visitors to park.  
  
Dean finds a spot far enough away from other cars and begins the trek to hospital admission to see if he can charm his way into figuring out if his soulmate is here. He wavers between being jovially optimistic and heartbreakingly upset. Once he reaches the front desk he decides to just be honest and real.  
  
“Uh, hi, Marcy?” Dean says, noticing the woman’s name-tag. “Look, I don’t know how to explain this but I’m-- well I’m losing color.”  
  
Marcy smiles and nods sympathetically. “This is very common. If you’ll fill out these forms I can have the doctor speak with you--”  
  
“No,” Dean interrupts more harshly than he intended. He smiles tightly and tries again. “What I mean is, I am looking for someone. I’ve never met my soulmate but I think they might be here. And if I can at least see them…” Dean trails off and waves a hand helplessly, not even understanding himself right now.  
  
“I see,” Marcy says, her expression suddenly blank. Professional.  
  
Dean lowers his voice. “I’m gonna regret it forever if I walk outta here and go completely colorblind. I just want,” Dean takes a deep breath, “I just want to make sure they’re here, that they’ll be okay and if not then I can at least say goodbye.”  
  
Marcy lets out a breath between her lips and gives Dean a stern look. “Okay, do you know anything about them at all? I can narrow down where to look.”  
  
“Well, I’m losing--”  
  
“Right, so probably ICU. Any other details?”  
  
“I think it was a car accident,” Dean says before he can help himself. He looks down at the counter and scratches his nail at an ink stain. “And, uh, maybe a man.”  
  
Marcy nods as she types and looks through the hospital database. “I’m going to call someone over here to take my place and I’ll personally escort you. I think I’ve got a hit here but if you try any funny business security will have your ass. Do you understand?”  
  
Dean holds up his hands. “I just want to use my God-given soulmate rights to visit my soulmate. No funny business.”  
  
Once Marcy is ready to go, a replacement in her seat, she leads him down a corridor to an elevator. Dean’s nerves are all raw and pulsing with his erratic heart rate. He must look as nervous as he feels because Marcy’s expression softens.  
  
“To be honest, I hope this is your soulmate,” Marcy says, relaxing further. She looks wistful as she says, “It’s rare to get to witness that moment when two people come together for the first time and know they complete each other.”  
  
Dean tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks nervously on his feet. “Yeah, might not be my soulmate here, though. Then I’ll have ruined your day,” he says lightly.  
  
The elevator door opens and they walk down another corridor to a set of locked double doors. Marcy uses her employee badge to open the door.  
  
By now Dean is almost hyperventilating with panic and an overwhelming burdened feeling. He knows, like a dog with a scent, that his soulmate is here in one of these bright, sad rooms.  
  
He looks over the grey walls, past each door, wondering which one this person is lying in, while Marcy approaches a coworker and says, “Hi, Norm. I’ve got Castiel Novak’s partner here,” she lies, looking over at Dean. “Come sign in, please, and then I’ll take you to room 717.”  
  
Dean scribbles some kind of signature, the sound of pen against paper sounding exaggeratedly loud, replaced only by the sound of his breathing and a rush of wind in his ears. He’s so fucking nervous and he isn’t sure why. More than likely this Castiel is unconscious.  
  
Just one look, and a talk with some doctor to see if he’ll be alright, and then Dean will leave. Castiel won’t ever have to even know he was here. Dean wipes his hands on the back of his jeans before he steps into the room, his eyes instantly falling on the figure on the bed.  
  
A very awake figure with the same shock of dark hair, peeking out from a white bandage around his head, from Dean’s dream. The rest of the man is covered in hospital-standard sheets and he’s squinting down at a paper.  
  
Dean feels a hand on his back urging him forward as Marcy steps into the room behind him. Castiel looks up and watches Marcy at first. He looks tired but pleasant but when he sees Dean his face wrinkles in confusion and he tilts his head ever-so-slightly, his lips parting.  
  
Marcy elbows Dean gently once they’ve reached the foot of the bed side-by-side. “Ungh,” Dean complains, tossing her an annoyed look. He looks back at the man. “Uh, hi, Cas?”  
  
Cas looks at him with a fearful sorta hope, like the lights have just come on and he can see clearly. “Do I know you?” he asks hoarsely.  
  
Dean rubs the back of his head and glances sideways at Marcy. She puts her hands up and nods, smiling even though her eyes are swimming with tears. She backs up and leaves the room without a word.  
  
“Are you my--”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“How did you find me?” Cas asks.  
  
Dean moves away from the foot of the bed and hesitatingly steps closer to the side, half-assing the mattress. “Uh, you want the corny version?” Dean looks down at the sheet and plucks at it. “I dreamed about you, I mean your wreck. And when I woke up I had to find ya. Make sure you’re okay.”  
  
A hand settles over Dean’s and he looks up at blue eyes. “I wasn’t fine until a little while ago and now I should be going home soon. A miracle, they told me. If you want the corny version,” Cas says with a lopsided smile.  
  
And just like that the tension is broken and Dean laughs. It isn’t until much later, when he’s walking the halls that he realizes the walls are puke-green and not grey.  
  
Dean gets his phone out as he continues the long trek to his car at the back of the parking lot. He’s got several missed texts and a missed call from his brother.

“Sammy,” he says cheerfully. “I found him.”  
  
“Found him who?” Sam asks.  
  
“My soulmate. He’s gonna be alright.”  
  
Sam lets out a big breath into the phone. “Dean, that’s great. So you got to talk to him and everything? How is everything looking?”  
  
Dean is pretty sure he’s asking about Cas’ diagnosis and refrains from saying something giddily cheesy like how _everything is looking brighter and better than yesterday_ as Dean notes how beautiful the green grass looks _._ Instead Dean smiles as he settles behind the wheel of his car and says, “He’s gonna be just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AU's are one of my absolute favorites. I am writing a complex, multi-chapter Samdreel and Destiel soulmate AU for SPNReverseBang (posting date is Nov. 17) that I am so stoked about. This colorblind story is very different from the one I'm writing for ReverseBang but I wanted to mention it in case you're interested in a longer fic with some angst and drama. So mark your calendars for the 17th and/or subscribe to my profile.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	25. Two Sides of the Same Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a pirate ship it isn't always easy to get alone time with the Captain, which is why Dean gets himself into trouble all of the time. What Castiel and Dean have between them grows into something more profound than just a way to blow off steam when out at sea. When their relationship is exposed Castiel fears the worst...
> 
> This story is based on my own prompt: Castiel is a ship captain. One of his best men, Dean, is unruly and laughs in the face of adversary... and authority, including Castiel. Castiel often has to bring Dean to his quarters to "discuss" his rebellious behavior and punish him. Little does anyone know... Dean gets in trouble on purpose to get close to the Captain.
> 
> Promptober word of the day is: SHIP  
> Rated: Explicit

Dean was the sort of rebellious man who would die young and with a shit-eating grin on his face. Captain Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bring him to me.”

Samandriel left the Captain’s chambers to fetch the young pirate, leaving Castiel to slump into a chair and think about the newest offense from Dean Winchester.

“Git offa me, Mate,” Dean can be heard saying before the door swings open and he's roughly pushed inside.

“Dean, what is this about you starting a fight on deck?” Castiel scolds once the man has righted himself and stepped up to Castiel’s desk. “We have a code. Save the fighting for practice or pillaging.”

“Maybe it was practice,” Dean says defiantly, lifting his chin and staring down his nose where the Captain sits.

Castiel grits his teeth. “Samandriel? Leave us and shut the door.”

Once the heavy door creaks into place Castiel stands and comes around the table to sit on the edge, opening his legs and pulling Dean between them.

“I know you are a great fighter but you're also hot-tempered.”

“Being a good boy won't get me in here.” Dean says in a low voice, his hands coming to rest on Castiel’s thighs.

Castiel sighs and brushes errant hair off of Dean’s forehead. “I'm going to have to punish you. Swab the deck? Kitchen duty?” Castiel contemplates the choices. “No, you must take on Bartholomew’s duties for a fortnight.”

“A fortnight?” Dean complains, fingers squeezing the thick flesh under his fingers. “It ain't my fault he’s a sloppy, cheatin’, no good--”

“Dean,” Castiel chastises. “I cannot show favoritism. You know the men have nothing better to do with all this time than to watch me sharply and wait for me to fail.”

“And you know that I keep my ears open for rumors of mutiny against ya,” Dean says. “If I hear of anybody plannin’ anything,” Dean says so hotly that shivers run up Castiel’s spine, “I’ve got your back.”

Castiel knows the pirate code well by now and despite promises of _honesty_ and  _loyalty_ , he knows mutiny is definitely more likely than not because Castiel used to belong in the Navy. He is still working hard to gain the trust of some of the crew.  
  
“And yet my stance remains the same. I cannot show you favoritism, Dean,” Castiel replies. “It puts you at risk with the other men.”

“Half a fortnight,” Dean counters, crossing his arms.

“I still don't think it is sufficient…” Castiel muses. He looks into the rebellious eyes of his crewman and lover, sensing a challenge there. There are things that Dean has done that have earned him far more severe punishment, even death. But Castiel would never, could never... He’d let Dean get away with murder before Castiel would raise a hand to him.

“Turn around,” he orders.

Dean lowers his arms and turns around. He smiles fondly at the back of Dean's head, slipping a hand around his waist and down the front of Dean’s pants. Before Dean leaves Castiel wants an intimate moment of closeness.

“Cas,” Dean says reverently, the nickname slipping out from his lips as he relaxes into Castiel’s chest, making a pleased sound in the back of his throat when Castiel’s hand comes around his flaccid cock.

Dean rests his head back on Castiel’s shoulder, his breathing becoming ragged as Castiel works the velvet flesh into hardness, relishing in the sensation of it filling with heated blood. “You know the worst kind of punishment that I could inflict on you would be to stop here and send you on your way?”

Dean pulls Castiel’s hand out of his pants and turns around so they are once again facing each other. “What if I apologized to my Captain?” Dean asks with a pointed look to Castiel’s crotch and not so innocently batting his eyelashes when he looks back up at Castiel.

“Hmm, it couldn't hurt,” he says even as Dean unbuckles Castiel’s belt. He’s already hard just from touching Dean a moment ago, so of course Dean smirks when he frees the thick member from its constraints, taking him to mouth.

Castiel sighs and runs his fingers through dirty-blond hair, his ornate rings catching strands here and there. Dean doesn’t complain. He sucks Castiel down and takes up a quick, beautifully sloppy pace that has Castiel coming white-hot down Dean’s throat a couple of minutes later. If he could keep Dean with him always, for more than just this...

But they’ve already spent too much time alone, Castiel knows, as Dean fixes Castiel’s pants and buckles his belt for him. Samandriel will be back any moment, but rather than looking chagrined that he’ll be leaving the chamber unsatisfied without reciprocation, Dean grins lazily and leans in for a deep, obscene kiss.

“I hope that I have pleased my Captain and served some of my punishment sufficiently?” Dean asks more smartly than his usual drawl, most likely in an effort to impress him.

Castiel quirks a brow. “I should think,” he says slowly, “that only leaves me more wanting. How can I be pleased with that when what I truly want is all of you?”

Dean’s brow furrows in confusion but whatever he wants to say is lost when Samandriel returns.

“You’ll be taking the chores of Bartholomew,” Castiel says sternly, “for half a fortnight."

Castiel pushes away from his desk and runs his hands through his hair when the door shuts and he’s left alone.

He essentially just confessed to Dean that he means more than just a few wayward acts of pleasure. While many men indulge in sexual diversions with one another, Castiel, a former officer in the Naval forces, still hasn’t fully grasped the liberal ideals in his newer lifestyle. And therefore he does not partake in sexual acts with his men.

Dean is the exception to his every rule. The truth is Castiel only has affections for the one unruly pirate with hypnotic green eyes and a spattering of freckles as expansive of a night sky filled with stars.

It is not unheard of for two male pirates to marry and share a bed. But Dean must assume each crew member that gets called to Castiel’s chambers must be having a  _bit o’ fun_. Which is not true. He allows Dean liberties in private that he doesn’t tolerate with the others.

Castiel worries as he paces the dark, dank space. It is weakness, this love, and he is put to the test not even three weeks later.

“Captain, we gots a problem,” Cole says, coming upon Castiel on the beach where rowboats filled with pillaged goods are being sent from land to their ship. Behind them black smoke rises to the sky from burning buildings.

“What is it?” he asks absently, eyes scanning over the other men. He can’t see Dean and asks after him. “Where’s Winchester?”

“Uh, thas the problem. Some villagers we missed got brave on our way out. They got him. tied him up, fixin’ to burn.”

Castiel’s heart turns heavy like solid stone, unbeating and frozen in this space of time as the words sink in. His eyes wildly search the distant town before he breaks into a dead run, straight back to the fray, drawing his sword and angrily slicing his way to the commotion near the village center.

It occurs to him, when a brute of a man manages to block Castiel and knock him down, that Castiel’s men from the beach have followed and are helping to pave his way to Dean. Whether they’re there for their captain, or for their crew-mate, he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. They're here to help is what matters.

Benny slices the head off of the man looming over Castiel and helps him to his feet. The entire pirate crew turns and continues on until Cas finds Dean, tied to a stake, prepared to be burned alive. In an instant their eyes lock and Dean shakes his head, a silent acceptance for his fateful death.

He doesn’t want to be saved.

Well tough shit.

Castiel pushes his sword into the belly of a filthy man who charges at him, pulling it back out swiftly to slice the throat of the next. Sweat and swearing, blood, the sound of metal against metal, and the gurgling sounds of dying men fill the air with their scent and sound.

Castiel is so close but Bartholomew --a man who hates Dean with every fiber of his being-- grabs a torch and weaves his way through fighting bodies. He stops before the ring of hay surrounding Dean.

“Ever’body knows Dean Winchester is the captain’s special pet. Let’s see what you all think o’ yer weak Captain now,” he yells before dropping the fire onto the dried grasses.

“No,” Castiel cries, shoving his way toward Dean without a thought to the dangers of swinging weapons around him. The hay catches and through the growing flames he can see Dean’s chest heaving from fear and smoke, eyes clenched tightly shut as he fights to keep from screaming.

Castiel has no choice. He has to jump into the fire and rescue him. And if he dies, so be it. He’d follow Dean even unto death. He isn’t sure he could survive the loss otherwise. He drops his sword and pulls a short blade from his belt, jumping into the flames to the dirt directly surrounding the stake.

His eyes are stinging, his flesh is so hot it becomes numb but his thoughts only run along one vein of thought: he has to save Dean. He blindly slices at the ropes tying Dean to the rough-hewn pole, pulling the limp body into his arms and running out of the fire almost as quickly as he jumped in.

They collapse into a heap in the too-cold air. Too cold because they’re too hot, their clothing and hair singed and smoking. Behind them the fight dies down and with it comes silence. Castiel holds Dean on his lap, rocking his lifeless body as he weeps and shakes.

He doesn’t notice his men forming a wall behind him until Garth lays a hand on his shoulder and Castiel turns his tear-ravaged face to them. Bartholomew is not among them but that doesn’t mean some of these men won’t also turn on him...

“Let me, Captain?” Garth asks gently. Castiel nods and Garth reaches a hand to Dean’s neck. “He still has blood running in his veins. He’s alive,” he says excitedly.

Stunned both by his men helping him and by Dean being alive, Castiel slips Dean to the ground from off of his lap to allow the more skilled man to attend to Dean. He stays where he kneels and Benny comes to crouch down next to him.

“He wasn’t in there long from what I can gather,” the man drawls in his thick accent. His face is caked in dirt and spatters of blood so Castiel knows he must look the same. “You saved him.”

Coughing and sputtering from Dean grabs their attention and a cheer rises up as the men crowd in closer. Garth claps Dean on the shoulder when Dean opens his eyes and stares up at everyone, his soot-covered face making the green irises brighter than usual in contrast.

“Am I dead?” Dean asks huskily before coughing more.

Garth helps him to sit up before moving out of the way for Castiel to take his place. “You think we’d all be here if you were dead?” Castiel asks lightly, heart still racing.

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Dean answers honestly. “You were foolish for jumpin’ in there, Cas.”

Ignoring the looks the other men share hearing his special nickname, Castiel claps hands on either side of Dean’s face, looking deeply into tired eyes. Tired eyes that look worriedly at the other men just behind Castiel before returning to him.

“Foolish would’ve been standing there doing nothing except watch you die.” Castiel says angrily. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Plenty of our men died today and you didn’t jump in to save them,” Dean says weakly, his confusion evident.

“They're not you. And, while I do mourn them, I do not…” he looks up helplessly at his gathered men, meaning no offense.

Benny lays a heavy hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “We git it. You don' love the rest of us the same.” He laughs boisterously and the other men join in. “We ain't blind.”

Dean closes his eyes and leans into one of Cas’ hands, going limp. “Come on, help me get him back to the ship,” Castiel orders, grateful for his men's acceptance. “Put him in my quarters.” He doesn't add  _-where he belongs-_  but it is implied.

Finally, where he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: it is true that pirates did have homosexual relationships and marriages.
> 
> They were very liberal and also believed in the structure of democracy.
> 
> I really wanted to draw this one out more but the word limit for this event is 2000 words (and I almost always go over a little, oops) so this one is being filed away for a rainy day to be made into a full story later.
> 
> I came up with this prompt for a FB 'fanfic prompt' group. If you are inspired by the prompt then by all means write your own unique story. Be sure to come back and leave me a link so I can read it. Just do not copy what I have written. Happy writing!
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	26. You're What I'm Looking For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House hunter Dean is ready to settle into a home of his own. But everything his realtor shows him just isn't making the cut. What he does walk away with is a hot-as-hell boyfriend who has a big surprise up his sleeve.
> 
> Based on the prompt: Person A is a picky house hunter; Person B is the realtor trying to help them to find the perfect place. They fall in love and Person B finally shows off their own house knowing it's perfect for them both, asking Person A to move in.
> 
> Promptober word of the day is SQUEAK  
> Rating: Teen+

Dean needs to find a place now that Sam has moved out, happily married and getting settled. He figures that if he's paying as much as he is on rent, he may as well pay similar and own the place.

He isn't entirely sure what he's looking for but the more places he sees, the more he's sure that he'll able to narrow down the specifics beyond how many beds and baths.   
  
His realtor had emailed him a list of properties to look at today. But when Dean pulls up curbside to a two-bedroom Tudor he’s taken aback by a tall, dark-haired stranger stepping out of a sedan to greet him.   
  
“Dean Winchester?” a surprisingly rugged voice asks.   
  
“Uh, yes.” Dean matches the man’s deep tone as he walks up the driveway. He tries to see past the sunglasses to meet the man’s eyes but he only sees his squinty self reflected back. The sun is a bitch today.   
  
“I’m stepping in for Zachariah today. He came down with a stomach virus last minute. I’m Castiel Novak and I’ll be happy to show you the properties today.”   
  
Dean is pleasantly surprised. He was close to asking for a different realtor. Zachariah has a stick up his ass, either ignoring Dean while he’s on his phone or urging Dean to hurry things along with an intimidating impatience. Maybe if this Castiel guy has a better attitude Dean will make the switch. He's at least easier on the eyes if nothing else.  
  
Dean sweeps his hand toward the house. “Lead the way.”   
  
Castiel smiles and turns to get the door unlocked. “So this is a two-bed, two-bath. The area is really nice.” Castiel steps in and moves aside for Dean to come through, pulling his sunglasses off and hanging them from the collar of his button-down shirt.   
  
The interior is really cramped and tiny. Dean walks around the area, the hardwood floors squeaking in protest from his shifting weight. “I like the outside,” he says finally when they pause in the kitchen. “I like the cottage-y look.”   
  
“But?” Castiel’s blue eyes watch Dean steadily, without impatience or judgement.   
  
He shrugs. “Just doesn’t feel right.”   
  
Castiel smiles instead of rolling his eyes like Zach would do. “I could see, from the notes Zachariah has, that you are still unsure about a lot of things. Curb appeal is a major factor when looking for a home, but we could narrow the search further if I know more specifics.”   
  
“Well, gotta admit that I kinda grew up in some rundown shanty, basically, and been living in an apartment ever since I moved out. The options seem overwhelming.”   
  
“That’s okay. Knowing what you dislike is just as important as knowing what you do like.” Castiel looks down at the floor. “Like flooring. Do you like this hardwood? Or do you prefer carpet? Granted, many older homes will have hardwood under any carpeting if you want carpet but later change your mind.”   
  
“Huh, the older homes definitely are appealing. I don’t mind a little bit of a fixer-upper. I’m good with my hands.” Dean grins, the smile growing wider when Castiel appears flustered by that remark.

If Dean merely suspected Cas of being attracted to him then he knew it now. Most straight guys wouldn’t blush and, at the most, they’d make some lewd comment about masturbation or women.

“Uh, well,” Castiel stammers as he attempts to regain composure, “I have a questionnaire that I like to give clients that helps to outline some of the more popular options in homes. I think it might help before I show you other places that will just be a waste of time.”  
  
Dean nods. “Yeah, okay. Cas? How long does it usually take people to even find a place?”   
  
They exit and Castiel locks the door, returning the key to the lock box. “For some it may take weeks, others it can take months,” he answers honestly. “I see you’ve been looking for two weeks now. Have you seen anything promising?”   
  
Castiel returns his sunglasses to his face and unlocks his car with a button on his keychain. Dean tries not to check out his ass when he bends down into the driver’s seat to reach for a survey from his briefcase on the passenger seat. But it’s futile. Dean totally checks him out.   
  
“Not really. Honestly, Zachariah and I don’t really jive which I think is part of the problem,” Dean admits and he swears he hears Cas chuckle but when the man turns to Dean his expression is blank. He takes the page of questions --which is, impressively, on a clipboard-- and the proffered pen.   
  
Castiel leans against the closed door of his car and waits for Dean to fill out the survey, watching him and thinking about what-- Dean has no idea.   
  
The entire questionnaire is thorough and gives Dean a better idea of what he’d like in a place he could call home. He decides he would like a decent sized yard, land even. The yard may be more important to him than the interior. A place to grill and to put up a hammock, to mow and to maybe even try to garden.   
  
The more he fills out, the better Dean feels, like he can finally envision a place in his mind to come home to. “So, Cas, I was already considering asking for a different realtor,” he says and Castiel nods. “If your client load ain’t too full, would you consider taking me on full time after today?”   
  
Castiel swallows and takes the survey, breaking eye contact to read the things Dean has checked off and noted. “I would need to check but I’m fairly certain I could handle you.” The words seem to hold some undertow of meaning, tugging at Dean and pulling him in.   
  
He grins. “Alright, awesome.”   
  
“Well,” Castiel says, clearing his throat and waving the paper, “I can already tell you that everything else scheduled for today most likely won’t appeal to you. We can still look at them if you want…”   
  
As daunting as it is to look at half a dozen houses he will most likely hate, Dean is intrigued by the tall, dark, handsome realtor with the intense blue eyes. “Yeah, might as well. You said it’d be helpful to know what I hate, too, right?”   
  
They spend the rest of the morning, and the next four months, visiting home-after-home when Dean has the time off of work to house hunt. During that time they begin riding in the same car, something Cas admits that most realtors don’t do for people who aren’t family or friend.   
  
For some reason that fact emboldens Dean to ask Cas out. They go out for a few dinners and drinks, and start dating each other exclusively, often staying at either of their apartments together. Around the fifth month of looking for a home Dean throws in the towel.   
  
His reasoning is that nothing on the market, in his price bracket, is going to work for him, and he doesn’t want to get lassoed to a mortgage on a house he’s settling for, only to turn around and start the process over again when the right place is for sale.   
  
One blustery day, when they’ve been dating for six months, Dean slides into the warmed seats of Cas’ fancy car, which drives so quietly he wouldn't know it was on if it wasn't moving. It is odd, but it’s clean and it smells like Cas, which Dean likes.   
  
Dean starts talking after a few quiet minutes but he isn’t getting any sort of response from his boyfriend. He looks over to find Cas chewing his lip in deep concentration. “Cas? You with me?”   
  
“Yes. I was just thinking about one last place I think I want to show you. I’m trying to decide if I think you’ll like it, or not.” He looks and sounds incredibly nervous, which is out of character for Cas.   
  
And Dean is confused. “Okay?” he asks lightly. “I thought we talked about this, though. About how I’m done looking at places now. It’s been a couple of months. What brought this on?”   
  
“Yes, but I think this place may fit all of your criteria so why wait any longer?” Cas asks, turning onto a long, quiet lane which instantly piques Dean’s interest. Most places they had visited had been in the suburbs or in the city. This is the most rural they’ve gone.   
  
He can’t help but murmuring, “Wow,” as he sits up straighter in his seat as the view gives way to densely treed land. Now this is more like it. Private woods.   
  
Cas keeps sending glances over at Dean but remains quiet, gauging Dean's response to every little thing that he picks up on. When they turn down another lane and pull up to a modern log cabin Dean about swoons. There’s just enough clearing behind the house, that he can see, for grilling and building fires and playing football with friends if he wanted.   
  
“Wow,” he says for about the hundredth time, shutting the car door and staring up at the house. He notices quickly that the house is most likely still occupied, which is nothing new with house hunting. He just has to look beyond the current owner’s crap and imagine his own.   
  
Cas unlocks the door while Dean admires the snow-dusted landscape. Cas steps in and takes his shoes off, tossing his car keys onto a little table by the front door. But Dean barely registers all of that as he steps into a large, open space with a gabled ceiling.   
  
The interior walls are all wood, not a scrap of sheetrock in sight. Dean would have thought the wood tones would make a space cramp but because it is all open, with high ceilings, it is cozy and warm.   
  
The bank of windows against the back wall look out into a yard, with a patio, and a huge stone fireplace graces one corner of the living room space.   
  
Cas goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Dean side-eyes him but gets distracted by the staircase leading up to a loft. “Oh no way,” he says excitedly, taking the steps two at a time. There’s another small living space and a door leading to a bedroom with an ensuite bathroom. It has a smaller fireplace compared to the one in the living room.   
  
“Cas, this place kicks ass,” Dean says as he takes the stairs back down where Cas greets him with a cold beer. Dean realizes it came from the fridge. “Uh, what’re you doing?”   
  
“I haven’t seen you this excited about any of the other places that I’ve shown you,” Cas says instead of answering. “I have to be honest with you. This is my house.”   
  
Dean gapes at Cas and then looks around. “But you have an apartment…”   
  
“My lease is up next month and I’m not renewing. I was kind of hoping my handsome boyfriend would want to move in with me because, it would seem, we’ve both been looking for the same things at the same time.”   
  
“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, finally taking the beer and crowding into Cas’ space. “How do you figure?”   
  
Cas has a rare moment of shyness and ducks his head. “When you filled out that survey all those months ago? You checked out just about everything I was looking for in a house for myself. I thought, ‘No big deal. Client comes first.’ But then nothing came on the market, not for either of us. There were only houses in the suburbs or city, which neither of us wanted.   
  
“And then,” Cas says, trailing a hand up and down Dean’s arm, “we got together. I thought maybe it was going to be superficial like every other time I’ve dated but I-- I fell for you. And I began to hope that you fell for me, too. I found this place just after you decided you were done looking.”   
  
Dean isn’t so good with all the mushy lovey-dovey talk but he can feel a lump forming in his throat and his stomach feels like it’s twisted into one large knot. “So what’re you saying, Cas?”   
  
“I’m saying that I want to be with you indefinitely. I want to settle down with you. I don’t want to live split between our apartments anymore. I bought this house for you, for us.” Cas watches Dean cautiously and for good reason. Part of Dean wants to scream and run but the other part of him wants nothing more than to move in tonight.   
  
This is big. Like  _commitment level big._ A guy doesn’t just buy another guy a house for no good reason. But if Dean is honest with himself then he knows that what he began looking for a long time ago wasn’t just a house, but the entire package. A warm hearth and a spacious yard are all great things but they’d be even better when shared with someone he loves...   
  
Dean looks into Cas’ eyes in shock at his own revelation, bright eyes that are beginning to dim in their hope the longer Dean stands here like a fool. He tries to speak and has to stop to clear his throat, taking Cas’ hand in his own. “Yes. My answer is yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, if I had more time to drag this out, I would have had.   
> *adds to long list of short drabbles to make into longer fics*
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	27. Creepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas finally meets his elusive neighbor when his creepers, aka climbing vines, invade the other man's yard. A friendship and love develop but will Cas ever be brave enough to risk their friendship and tell Dean how he feels?
> 
> Promptober word of the day is CLIMB  
> Rating: Teen+

Castiel loves to come out to his garden in the early morning hours with a steamy cup of coffee. He enjoys his hot drink and listens to birdsong, watching blooms stretch toward the rising sun, breathing deeply in the fresh air.

Without fail, every weekday morning at the same time, the quiet reverie is interrupted by his neighbor’s rumbly old car.  
  
This morning is no different. He can hear his neighbor’s garage door rattle open and closed, the morning quiet resuming as soon as the muffled sound of motor dies.   
  
Cas glances at their shared fence and frowns. He had planted some climbing vines near the fence and didn’t expect them to get so out-of-hand and so quickly. Seemingly overnight they trailed into his neighbor’s yard. A peek over the fence had horrified him. His plants were taking over the other yard.   
  
He had gone over last week to offer to clear the creepers away in apology, but when he had knocked on the door his neighbor didn't answer. Cas knew he was home. It is difficult to ignore the noise of his vehicle. Cas left, dejected, when he realized his neighbor most likely wanted nothing to do with him.   
  
Which is why he’s surprised to hear this same neighbor pounding on his door about an hour after Cas had come inside to get ready for work, right when Cas is fixing his tie in the foyer mirror.   
  
He opens the door to greet a surly-faced, handsome man who looks startled to see Cas open the door. He looks Cas up-and-down before taking a half-step back. When the man says nothing Cas tilts his head in question. He really must get to work.   
  
“Can I help you?”   
  
The man clears his throat and whatever anger was there fades away to uncertainty. “Yeah, I live next door. Just went out back and noticed your plants have invaded a decent bit of my yard.”   
  
“I am aware,” Cas says, holding up a hand to stop Dean from interrupting. He quickly adds, “I came over last week to inform you and to offer to remedy the situation. You, uh, didn’t answer the door. I’m Cas, by the way.”   
  
“Cas,” the man says, trying out the name with a small lopsided smile. “I’m Dean. I’m a night watchman and work the graveyard shift,” he explains. “I wear noise-canceling headphones so I can sleep during the day. I must not’ve heard ya.”  
  
“If you don’t mind me coming onto your property to clear them out, I’d be happy to do that for you. I’ll take them out indefinitely to avoid the problem again. But,” Cas look at his watch, “I’m going to be late for work so I need to go now. If you’ll be around at six I could come over then?”   
  
“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. I’ll see you then.”

It is hard to concentrate the rest of the day. Even though they’ve been neighbors for quite some time, Cas has mostly kept to himself. And with Dean’s odd hours they have been like two ships passing in the night. He never expected to be so drawn in by gruff-and-rough looking neighbor who looks to be about his own age.  
  
There’s so much he wants to ask and learn about Dean. Why such an old car? Has he always lived alone? Why does he work at night? Perhaps he has found a new friend in his neighbor. Being alone isn’t always lonely but it would be nice to have a friend next door.   
  
But he’s getting ahead of himself. Cas has a bad habit of daydreaming and conjuring up fantasies. He shakes himself and tries to focus on work but he is quickly distracted again.   
  
Maybe he should bring something by tonight. A dessert, or something, as apology. He really does feel bad that something he planted encroached on his neighbor.

On his way home he stops by the store and looks over the bakery goods. If he had enough time before going over he might have just made something but this bakery has delicious pies. He picks up a cherry and heads home to change into clothing appropriate to doing yard work.  
  
After a quick dinner of leftovers Cas grabs the pie, gardening gloves and heads over at six o’clock on the dot.   
  
“Good evening, Dean--”   
  
“You brought a pie?” Dean interrupts. “Okay, you win Best Neighbor points, for sure. Come on in.”   
  
Cas steps inside and waits for Dean to lead the way to the kitchen and the door that should lead to his yard. “I win points, huh? Even though I’ve made an atrocious mess of your property?”   
  
Dean waves a hand to dismiss the comment. “You didn’t mean to and you’re gonna fix it. Gotta say that’s one of those --what do you call ‘em?-- qualities that I appreciate. People who fix their mistakes. Anyway, door to the back is here. I just need to grab my ratty sneakers and I’ll be out in a sec.”   
  
“Dean,” Cas chastises. “I said I’d make this up to you. I don’t expect you to get your hands dirty…”   
  
“No problem, Cas. It wouldn’t feel right leaving you out there to do all that alone. Besides, it’ll get done faster and then,” he wiggles his eyebrows, “we can dig into this pie.”   
  
Cas bites the inside of his cheek to keep from protesting further. If Dean wants to help, who is he to deny him? It’s his own yard. Maybe he wants to keep an eye on Cas but doesn’t want to say it outright.   
  
They set to work, pulling sticky vines off the privacy fence and away from the grass they’ve entangled themselves in, tossing them over to Cas’ property so he can burn them later.   
  
Dean is really funny, even if Cas doesn’t understand half of his references. Somehow, it seems, Cas makes Dean laugh so hard that he responds with his whole body, throwing his head back and letting the sound echo in the neighborhood. Each time Dean does it Cas can only stare at him in open-mouth shock.   
  
He has never elicited such a response from anyone, that he can recall. Most people take his dry humor with a little chuckle or a blank stare. It’s a good feeling to be able to make someone laugh and smile.   
  
After the yard is cleared, and half a pie is eaten, Cas goes home so Dean can get ready to go to work. He feels good knowing he made an easy friend in Dean.   
  
Throughout the next few months they begin to share dinners together after Cas gets home and before Dean leaves. They exchange keys, you know, just in case either of them gets locked out and needs a spare.   
  
Things are going really well and their friendship is the deepest and most meaningful relationship that Cas has had with anyone. He has never felt quite so happy before. And at the core of it he knows he has grown to love Dean.   
  
Cas isn’t quite sure what to do with that fact. Any time Dean has brought up a past relationship it has always been with a woman. And Cas doesn’t want to risk his friendship, so he pines in quiet, understanding that one day Dean may meet someone and move on. The idea fills Cas with dread but he’d never get in the way of Dean’s happiness.   
  
Just the other day Dean had told Cas that his little brother was coming to town to visit and practically begged Cas to come over to meet him. Tonight is the night he’ll get to meet Sam over dinner.   
  
Cas is a little late getting home so he doesn’t have time to change. He loses the jacket and keeps the slacks, buttoned shirt and vest, but changes into sneakers. Armed with the salad he made, since Dean can’t seem to keep a vegetable in his fridge from turning into a science experiment, Cas heads over.   
  
Out of habit Cas lets himself into Dean’s house. He can hear music playing and smiles as he gently shuts the door and bolts it. Dean is always complaining that Cas is super quiet and stealthy when he comes over but it isn’t his fault Dean almost always has music on to muffle any noise Cas makes.   
  
He can hear people talking as he approaches the kitchen and stops short when he hears his name mentioned by a voice he doesn’t recognize. Obviously it is Sam, Dean’s brother.   
  
“You do realize you talk about Cas, like, nonstop. So is there something there..?”   
  
There’s silence for so long that Cas can only assume Dean is giving his brother one of his looks that says he’s not amused by the question. And why should he be? But Cas isn’t prepared for Dean’s answer.   
  
Dean sounds uncomfortable, but also so small and unsure, when he says, “I don’t know. Maybe?”   
  
As if his legs have a mind of their own, they carry Cas the rest of the way to the kitchen and he steps in, interrupting the brothers before the conversation can go any further.   
  
“Damn it, Cas,” Dean says, putting a hand to his chest. “You’re like a fuckin’ ninja, I swear. Here, give me the rabbit food and meet my brother, Sammy.”   
  
Cas tries to keep his emotions in check and smiles as he turns to a tall man with deep dimples. “It’s just Sam. Nice to meet you, Cas.” They shake hands. “Heard a lot,” he says with some heavy meaning, glancing over Cas at Dean.   
  
“I've heard much about you as well. Dean talks about you all the time,” Cas replies. Dean steps past Cas, smiling and patting his shoulder, his hand brushing down Cas’ arm as he leaves the kitchen for a moment. Cas’ feels electrified by the touch, even though it is one of many times Dean has done it.   
  
Cas finds his eyes following Dean out of the room until Sam clears his throat and draws his attention back. Sam wears a small smile and looks amused. In fact, for the rest of the night Cas finds Sam wearing this expression.   
  
Like when Dean grumbles about salad but eats some anyway because Cas insists.   
  
Or when Dean scrapes off his tomatoes and puts them on Cas’ plate.   
  
Or when Dean laughs one of his full body laughs at something dumb that Cas says, until he’s wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.   
  
The entire night is an exposition of Dean in a new light, Cas seeing him through the eyes of Sam. Especially after Dean leaves for work and Cas is left alone to clean up with Sam. Cas fills the sink and Sam brings in dirty dishes.   
  
“You know,” Sam says, after the music has been shut off and the Impala is but a mere rumble in the distance, “I’ve never seen him like this. Well, actually, maybe one time when he was just a scrawny kid. Ironically it was over a girl named Cassie.”   
  
Cas is aware of Cassie, Dean’s first love. What he didn’t know was that Dean was treating him in any sort of similar manner that might be construed as something romantic.   
  
“Cas, Cassie. Seems my brother has a thing for the name.”   
  
“And I’m fairly certain your brother also only has ‘  _a thing’_ for women.”   
  
Sam leans on the counter and scratches his head. “I’m not so sure it is one or the other. He’s had a mad crush on Gunner Lawless since we were kids. And of course there’s Doctor Sexy…”   
  
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at, Sam.” The truth is that Cas can easily guess what Sam is getting at.   
  
But thankfully Sam drops the subject with another amused chuckle. He pushes away from the counter and takes over cleaning, sending Cas home to think about the things he overheard and to wonder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I smell a second chapter coming one day...........
> 
> Cas may be in love with Dean but even hearing that it could be reciprocated, that Dean could love him in return, sends him into a little bit of a panic. He is having a hard time hearing about it via eavesdropping and third person. He and Dean need to TALK!!!
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	28. Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is the single father who does everything... perfect. He attends school meetings, volunteers, bakes from scratch. Hell, he can even braid hair. He's the dad of dads. So when he hears that his daughter, Claire, is dealing with the class bully again, he can't help but feel it is the parents' fault. Before he can meet with Ben's parents, he has a chance encounter with Dean Winchester. Of course Dean looks like just the sort of dad to raise a bully... or does he?
> 
> Promptober word of the day is: FALL  
> Rating: Teen+

This is Castiel’s favorite time of year, when the breeze is cool and carries the scent of dying leaves that crunch beneath his boots. A canopy of multi colors wave above him in shades of red-orange-gold, the last few green leaves desperate to hang to their life-giving color.  
  
He zips his jacket up a little further when the breeze switches directions and blows past his collar in a shiver. In the near distance a school bell rings out signaling the end of a busy day of art and science, the beginning of a settling into dinner and bath at home.  
  
He picks up his pace just as Claire bounces out the door, talking excitedly to her best friend, Ramona. He hangs back to watch her. His heart feels incredibly full when she lifts her baby blues up and catches sight of him, her face exploding into the most beautiful smile.  
  
“Hey, Pumpkin,” he says when she leaps into his body, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. “How was school?”  
  
They turn and begin walking the three blocks down to their house. Claire talks his ear off about how a kid named Tony got in trouble for coloring on a wall when his teacher was distracted with a phonics lesson.  
  
“Yeah and he had to wash it off and didn’t get to go to recess--” Claire stops talking abruptly when a loud noise fills the air. The both look over at the red taillights of an old, black car as it coasts by. Cas looks down at Claire just in time to see her stick her tongue out, nose wrinkled up in disgust.  
  
“Claire Elizabeth Novak, we do not stick our tongues out at people. That is not polite.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s the dummy Ben’s car.”  
  
“Ben Winchester? Is that the same kid that bugged you in Kindergarten all the time?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Is he giving you a hard time this year, too?” Cas asks, prepared to set up a meeting with the teacher immediately.  
  
“He’s usually busy trading stupid--”  
  
“Claire,” Cas admonishes.  
  
“--sorry Daddy. He’s usually busy trading Pokemon cards with the other boys. But sometimes he comes up behind me and yanks my hair. Or pokes me in the back with his pencil.”  
  
“He pokes you with a pencil?”  
  
“The eraser part. It’s annoying. I told him to stop a bajillion times!”  
  
“Claire, you need to speak up to your teacher if you’ve asked him to stop and he doesn’t comply. It isn’t tattling when you’ve tried to problem-solve on your own first.”  
  
“I know. It’s just-- the other kids make fun if you tell on someone.”  
  
Castiel didn’t realize first grade could be so political, the peer pressure overwhelming at such a young age. He pats her shoulder and pulls her into a side hug as they continue walking, kicking up crunchy leaves and trying to step on one another’s shadows.  
  
He has to remind himself that Ben is just a child himself. Immature and still learning how to get along with different people in the world. Hair pulling reminds him of little boy crushes but if boys think violence is the only way to get a girl’s attention, more specifically his daughter’s attention, then they’re going to have a rude awakening.

He doesn't tell her the old adage that boys show their interest in girls through physical displays, and vice versa. He doesn't want her looking for love through assault, to think that someone will show their affections by hitting or even pulling hair, not even at such a young age.

Instead he encourages her to continue telling this Ben kid that he doesn't have a right to touch her person. If he continues then there will be meetings.

“Claire, after you've had a snack I'd like you to get homework done,” he instructs as soon as they step foot into their foyer.

Claire drops her bag and kicks off her shoes, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Cas chuckles and follows so he can get dinner started. As he leafs through his recipe box he tries really hard to not think about Claire being bullied.

Last year had been much the same, though it was more verbal. Which is still not okay. Ben was a new student at the end of the year, and they only had two months of class together before summer break, so Cas never did meet with Ben’s parents. The teacher had been made aware and worked hard with Ben to use better, kinder words.

Now that some behavior is bleeding into this year, though, Cas wonders if perhaps he should meet the parents. It may be futile, if Ben picks up this behavior at home, though. Still, they need to know that the Novaks will not be victims to any form of bullying.

Maybe Cas could help somehow. Ben is just a kid. While part of him is fuming mad that he bothers Claire, he also knows that some kids act out because they've got it rough. Cas is struggling more with his fury with the parents than with the little boy.

He's going to give Claire the chance to stand up for herself but a parent-teacher conference is definitely going to have to take place.

After Claire has a much-needed snack and quiet moment to unwind, she gets out her backpack and passes a flyer across the counter to Cas. He's got his hands covered in ground beef but he angles his head and squints to read it.

“Soup kitchen volunteers needed. This is great, Claire. When I'm done prepping dinner I'll look it over.”

+++

Several adults congregate in the dining room of the downtown soup kitchen. It's the usual tense-awkward when people first meet, sizing one another up. But hopefully by the end of the night everyone will have relaxed into genial comfort.

 

Cas has a harder time with crowds, not because he's impolite. He just needs a lot of quiet, reflective downtime. Which is why working in a library is perfect for him.

The organizer goes through the menu and is assigning everyone their tasks when the door blows open and brings in the scent of autumn and a wild-haired, gorgeous man.

“Sorry I'm late. This is where the volunteers meet, right?” the man asks even as he pulls out the chair next to Cas and sits down.

“It sure is. We were just going over everyone's job for the night. I'll have you help people through the line… what is your name?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”

Castiel snaps his gaze over and away quickly. Damn it.

“Alright, Dean, a lot of our patrons are elderly or disabled so you'll make sure they get a plate and get comfortable.”

“I can do that,” he says confidently.

The group breaks up and Castiel scoots away from the table, standing and turning away just as Dean looks at him with a smile, like he wants to introduce himself.

Castiel isn't ready to confront this person, assuming it is Ben’s father. And he has every reason to believe that he is, with the leather bomber jacket that looks like it was made for that car he drives. And considering half the volunteers tonight are parents of students.

He isn't good with confrontation. He tends to become more passionate than is necessary. Plus this isn't the time nor place. So he busies himself with getting his section of the food line ready, trying to not overhear the friendly Dean Winchester make nice to everyone else, the women in particular.

“I think your kids are in the same class,” an older woman says next to him. She tips her chin toward where Castiel had been staring. He flushes at being caught.

“Yes, I believe so. I'm Castiel Novak,” he says, introducing himself.

“I'm Doris, the school librarian. Claire's dad? Your daughter is such a precious girl. Ornery, but precious.”

Cas laughs heartily. It's a good way to describe her. “She is very headstrong,” he agrees. “It's always nice to meet another librarian. I work at the public library.”

“Oh, what a small world.” Doris continues to break up packages of dinner rolls into her large serving bowl while Castiel mixes bags of salad in his, talking about some of their favorite children's books.

It gives him a necessary distraction but his eyes keep wandering over to the tee-and-jeans clad man who is setting tables and putting out more chairs.

Dean has the whole bad boy vibe. And if everything Cas has heard about the rock-n-roll-loving, faux-hawk-toting little boy is true, then the child must pick up a lot of that behavior from his dad.

Cas frowns as he sets out salad dressing packets and listens to Doris, while mentally chastising the other man for flirting with a couple of the other mothers. Dean may think it's harmless but what would his wife think? Does she know he behaves this way? What must Ben see and pick up on?

The more the prep part of the evening goes on, the more angry Castiel becomes. Thankfully the kitchen opens for serving and people begin to enter for dinner.  
  
Not so thankfully, every five minutes or so, Dean is crossing his path, helping someone with their plate. And every time Dean comes through they make eye contact and it becomes disconcerting. Mostly because Dean is, well, really charming and it disarms Cas anew each time.  
  
“Well, looks like we’ve got Ranch, French or Italian, Bev,” Dean says cheerfully, flipping through the salad dressing packets while helping a particularly indecisive woman. She is holding up the line but instead of getting short with her or rushing, Dean quietly takes all three choices. “We’ll decide at the table,” Dean says quietly as he steers her toward a table. “Where would you like to sit?”  
  
When Dean comes back through with another person he returns the two packets he had taken. He hadn’t asked permission, he didn’t offer explanation. He just did what he thought would be most helpful.  
  
Castiel is having a harder time holding onto the negative image he has in his mind the longer he watches Dean with people.

Dean touches everyone, holds them up, guides them gently, never rolling his eyes or appearing annoyed with the endless requests and questions. He even learns, and remembers, their names.

Still, Claire is Cas’ daughter and no amount of peacocking around the soup kitchen is going to change the fact that Ben Winchester has been a thorn in her side. Castiel will have to discuss a meeting with the teacher at a later time.  
  
An hour after dinner service has begun the line slows down so the volunteers begin to clean up, everyone bringing their dirty serving dishes into the kitchen. Castiel stays behind to help wash dishes, avoiding the dining area where most everyone else is putting away chairs and wiping things down.  
  
“Well, I’m heading out,” Doris says, coming up behind Castiel where he’s elbows deep in dish water. “If you come across any noteworthy new releases let me know.”  
  
“Actually, we may be downsizing the children’s section soon. If there are any good selections I’ll bring them down to the school personally.” Castiel winks at her. “And if there are any good adults books I'll bring them by just for you.”  
  
Doris laughs and pats his back. “You know what I like. I just darn near talked your ear off for half-an-hour ‘bout it. Take care of yourself, honey. Claire, too.”  
  
By the time Castiel finishes up he is ready for some quiet time, feeling overstimulated and grouchy from all the noise. He drains the sink and waves good-bye to some of the other parents before stealing into the near-empty dining room.  
  
His eyes meet green ones ever so briefly but he turns for the door quick and makes his escape before anyone else can stop him to try to talk. He breathes a sigh of relief once he’s sitting behind the wheel and heading home to his baby girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have ten more pages written for this story, which includes a Halloween class party and a lock-in (where both of them do get locked in a room together by accident and all the built up tension between them comes to a sexy head-- pun intended).
> 
> Both dads are trying to do their best and Cas learns a big lesson on judging people without the full story.  
> Hope you liked this teaser!
> 
> The full fic will have Explicit rating. Please subscribe or leave a comment that you want me to notify you when I complete that story and publish.
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	29. Strangers on Airplanes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: "Bonding via eye contact over that annoying person on our plane that we're both slowly becoming more and more exasperated about."
> 
> Dean hates flying and now he's seated to a chatterbox who won't leave him be. At least the guy across the aisle sympathizes with him, judging by the glances he keeps sending Dean.
> 
> Promptober word of the day is UNITED  
> Rating: Teen+

“Oh my god,” a high voice screeches somewhere above Dean. “We’re going to have the best flight together.” A bouncy, brunette woman plops down in the seat next to Dean, showing him her airline ticket that shows she is, indeed, his seatmate for the next several hours.  
  
‘ _Oh my god’_ is right.  
  
Dean is already internally panicking over being in the claustrophobic tube that is about to take-off and go whizzing through the air at about 500 knots. How does he know something like that? He makes it his business to know how fast the death trap will be going when his life is at put at risk.  
  
“Did you bring a book? Maybe we can watch a movie together. Do you like adventures? I am a huge fan of Indiana Jones. My favorite is that new one, though. The older ones were just… blech. What's it called? The Crystal Skull, I think.”

Dean hasn't gotten a word in edgewise. All he can do is gape at this woman. She thought the film with Shia Labeouf was better than the classics? He really thinks he's going to puke now and the plane hasn't even moved yet.

Dean eyes the barf bag on the seat in front of him while she continues to talk about something to do with her cat.

“I'm Becky, by the way.”

“Uh, Dean. Smith,” he lies. He doesn't want to give her his real name.

She pulls her finger like a fake gun and winks at him. “Got some ID to confirm that, cowboy? I like to know who I'm sitting next to,” she drawls in some weird accent before laughing.

Dean shakes his head and looks over her shoulder to see if a steward is around with some mini vodkas. He wants them all, whatever they have in stock, and regardless the price.

His eyes catch blue ones across the aisle, belonging to a handsome man who is scowling at the back of Becky's head as she rants about how annoying some people can be.

The man’s eyes move from her and over at Dean. He offers Dean a sympathetic frown and returns to his book.

Well at least someone can empathize with Dean’s current pain, and he doesn't mean a physical one.

“You know what I hate?” Becky says. “Mechanics, am I right? Are they  _ever_ honest about cars? I feel like I always leave with more problems than I had arrived with.”

Dean clears his throat uncomfortably. He has owned his own shop for a few years now. The pay is shit and the customers can be even shittier if their car’s got problems they weren't aware of until inspected.

Would it be rude to put in ear buds and pretend to sleep? Dean bends down to feel for his backpack, pulling it onto his lap.

“Did you know blue is supposed to be calming?” Becky asks, taking an interest in Dean’s blue bag. “It's the most popular favorite color. Personally, I like orange. It's such a happy, vibrant color. Speaking of orange, did you know that the essence of oranges is a mood booster?”

“I had… no idea.”

“Then you have got to smell this,” Becky says loudly before dipping down to grab her purse.

Dean can see the seats in front of them shift under the weight of restless passengers, murmurs around them harshly discussing the peppy person who can't be still or quiet.

He looks over to find the man staring again, his book closed on his lap. Dean rolls his eyes and a small smile tugs at the corner of the man’s mouth.

Dean smiles back but Becky shoving some vial under his nose distracts him. He can smell the overwhelming scent of orange peels and gags slightly, swatting at her hand.

“What the hell?” he grouses.

“Tsk, tsk! You shouldn't say that word. And, anyway, this is orange essential oil. I'm surprised they let it through in my carry on but it's super helpful for helping me feel happy when I'm feeling down.”

“Do you ever feel down?” Dean mumbles, wondering what on earth could possibly make this happy person upset.

Becky giggles. “You're silly, Dean. Of course I can feel down. It doesn't happen often but it does happen.”

Dean smiles tightly and unzips his bag. He digs around but can't find his earbuds. He takes out a bag of M&M’s and a couple books to see if they got trapped at the bottom of the bag.

“Ooh, M&M’s! I love them but sadly there's just too much red dye. Oh and yellow dye. Did you know…”

Dean closes his eyes and counts to ten, tuning her out. He opens them again to seek out his empathizer across the aisle, mouthing ‘ _help me’._ The other man bites his lip to contain a smile when a steward steps between them, encouraging everyone to buckle up.  
  
Okay, shit. Now it’s real. The plane is about to start moving and Dean can feel panic clawing at his stomach. Becky had provided a necessary distraction thus far but not even her chipper, and sometimes offensive, remarks can't prevent Dean from avoiding the inevitable anxiety over his fear of heights.  
  
He presses his back into his seat and shakily belts the buckle tightly over his lap, closing his eyes in a poor attempt to focus on his breathing.   
  
“Dean,” a thunder-rumble voice says.  
  
Dean opens his eyes and looks over to find the man across the aisle beckoning him over. It occurs to Dean that he has no one sitting next to him.  
  
Becky looks between the two men. “Do you know each other?” Without waiting for a response she says, “Well, go on, go sit with your friend. I can entertain myself.”  
  
With a grateful look to Becky and then to the stranger, Dean gets up and scoots past her legs, bumping the seat in front of him. After mumbled apologies Dean sits down next to the other man and whispers, “Thank you. Unless you’re gonna talk my ear off to kingdom come, too?”  
  
The man smiles. “I’m Cas, and no, I’m fairly quiet.”  
  
“How’d you know my name?”  
  
“I think that everyone on the plane knows both your name, and hers, by now,” Cas whispers, leaning close to Dean so no one else can hear.  
  
Dean chuckles and rests his head against the seat, buckling his seatbelt. “So why the empty seat?”  
  
“I value my privacy so I often buy two seats. I’m happy to give it away if it is necessary, though.” Cas smiles wryly. “I’m not selfish. But luck favors the prepared.”  
  
“You believe in luck, or fate, or whatever?” Dean asks cynically.  
  
“No, not really. Then again, you’re here now. I’d call that… something.”  
  
Dean rolls his head to look over at Cas, looking over his features. “Yeah… something.”  
  
The takeoff isn’t so bad this flight, for once in Dean’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how did UNITED work for this story? They were united over their annoyance with Becky.
> 
> Or you can assume they're on a United flight lol. I didn't name the flight provider on purpose.
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	30. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has got his hands full when a talisman found in the bunker causes major changes in Castiel, Dean and Jack. This is a reader favorite: lighthearted and funny so I hope you enjoy since s13 has been so angsty thus far!
> 
> This is set some random time in S13 after Castiel has returned. Despite that, I do not have any spoilers in this (nothing from past or current episodes is mentioned).
> 
> Promptober word of the day is FOUND  
> Rating: Teen+

Sam taps a pen on the table and rubs his forehead. The words on the pages before him are beginning to blur, his stomach hollow and hungry.

He comes out of his deep thoughts slowly, the words “reversals” and “spellwork” running on repeat, when he realizes just how quiet it is in the bunker.

Too quiet.

“Shit,” he groans, scraping his chair on the floor as he pushes away from the table and stands. The first place he checks for Cas, Dean and Jack is in the next room.

Sam had moved the television and a couch into the War Room for them. He can hear the cartoon still playing, but a glance at the empty couch tells him the three are missing.

Sam takes the steps up to the bunker door two-at-a-time and finds the door is still locked so they most likely didn't get out.

“Dean?” Sam yells as he descends. “Cas? Where are you guys?”

From somewhere deep in the bunker he hears one of them laugh along with a muffled, “Come find us!”

The last thing Sam wants to do is play games but he walks in the direction of the voice. “This isn't funny. Just come out. I've got cartoons,” Sam offers.

“Boring!” another voice calls, from a different direction. That one sounded like Dean… maybe. It's hard to tell.

Sam turns that way and begins looking under furniture and inside cabinets. “You guys are acting like children, you know that?”

More giggling, from far away. Sam turns and follows it, sweeping into the kitchen where Cas is perching on the dining table.

“Get down from there, Cas,” Sam admonishes, picking up the four-year-old-sized angel. “Where are Dean and Jack?”

Big blue eyes peer up at Sam. Cas shrugs. “Can we have peanut butter jelly for lunch?”

“Tell you what. Why don't you go find Dean and Jack so  _everybody_ can have peanut butter and jelly? How does that sound?”

Cas nods solemnly and turns to run out of the kitchen, the t-shirt he's wearing swishing around his little ankles like a dress.

Sam shakes his head and gets out a loaf of bread. In no time at all Cas is leading a pouty Dean and hyper Jack into the kitchen.

“Sammy, I don't like grape,” Dean whines.

Jack echoes Dean, often looking to him for how to act. “Me neefer!”

“I do,” Cas says quietly.

Sam sighs and looks for a jar of strawberry in the fridge. He holds it up with a questioning expression. Jack claps and Dean sighs.

“You and me both, Dean,” Sam mumbles in response to the sigh. “You guys want milk, too?”

“Duh,” Dean says.

“Duh,” Jack repeats.

“Yes, please,” Cas answers.  
  
It was scary at first, for everybody, when Sam found himself faced with three amnesiac children. He wasn't sure who changed first, but whoever did must have run off with the cursed talisman until they came across another adult, and then that adult touched it, each of them de-aging in turn.  
  
Sam had heard a lot of commotion and crying, barreling into the Library where three pint-sized people stood, Jack clutching the talisman and most likely the last to change. Sam was the only one who thought to wrap the item up in fabric and not touch it with bare skin, hence being unchanged. He just didn't know where exactly they got it from to make his search for a cure any easier.  
  
With this curse or blessing, or whatever this is, none of them retained the mental maturity of their actual ages nor their adult memories. It was easy for Sam to distinguish who-was-who considering Cas has deep blue eyes. He still had a tie loosely hanging from his neck and his dress shirt sleeves were dragging on the ground.   
  
Sam has seen pictures of Dean as a kid, plus he was still wearing his t-shirt, his pants abandoned in his room, too large to stay on his small frame. By process of elimination Sam had determined the third little one was Jack, though he looked like he could be Dean's twin.

“As soon as I'm done eating I'll go back to looking for that reversal," Sam says. "Can you remember where you found the talisman, the one that makes grown-ups into kids? The shiny, golden one with the red jewels?”

Despite losing their memories, Sam is hoping they at least remember where the trinket had come from. But three little heads shake side-to-side in the negative, all expressions innocent. Maybe too innocent. They sit down around the table with their sandwiches.

Cas may be the one who cracks if Sam presses enough. He looks over at Jack. Or maybe Jack if he can separate him from the other two’s influence.

“No one is in trouble, guys. The faster you fess up,” Sam says in an overly-sweet tone, “the faster you can go back to being grown ups.”

Dean wrinkles his nose, peanut butter smeared on each side of his mouth. “Why’d we wanna do that?”

Sam doesn't want to admit that Dean has a valid point. Dean can actually be a kid for once. Hell, all three of them can be.  
  
Sam watches them each in turn, wiggling in their seats and making happy noises as they play with their food. They’re each wearing one of Dean’s t-shirts now, the smallest ones that Sam could find, kicking their legs that can’t quite reach the ground, smearing creamy p.b. and sticky jelly everywhere.  
  
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let them be for a bit. They are actually kind of cute…  
  
“Uh-oh. I think I gotta go,” Dean says. All that wiggling Dean had been doing begins to register as the action of a kid trying to hold their bladder.  
  
“Uhhhhh,” Sam says loudly, dodging the kitchen island and taking quick strides to his brother. He picks Dean up and sets him on the ground, urging him forward toward the bathroom.  
  
Dean squeezes his knees together. “I can’t move!” he cries. “If I move, I’ll pee!”  
  
Jack throws his head back and laughs while Cas furrows his dark, arched brows in concern.  
  
Sam lifts Dean up under his armpits and holds him at arm’s length, running out of the kitchen. Dean scrunches his face up and starts to whimper, curling his little legs to his belly.  

“I can't! I can't!” Dean cries.

Without underwear or pants to soak anything up, pee streams straight down to the floor, right where Sam steps and slips like an uncoordinated newborn giraffe.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Dean yells while Sam tries to keep them both upright, fingers digging into delicate flesh much too tightly. He manages to avoid dropping his brother or falling into pee but Dean is crying from being squeezed, and from embarrassment.

Sam’s immediate reaction is annoyance as he looks down at yellow splatter on the floor, his socks soaking some of it up. He's disgusted and doesn't know what to do first.

Set Dean down? Continue walking in wet socks? Clean it up or clean Dean up?

“Why did you hold it so long, Dean? You should know better!” Sam snaps and instantly regrets it when he focuses his attention on Dean’s face.

Dean gets mad even as he cries, kicking his feet to be let down. Sam carefully bends and lowers him to a dry patch of floor and Dean takes off for his room.

“Shit,” Sam mumbles, running his hands through his hair.

“Shit,” a voice echoes behind him.

Sam looks behind him and finds Jack and Cas watching him. He points a finger at Jack, “Don't say that word. And don't step closer. I gotta clean this up.”

After managing his socks off and cleaning up, Sam goes to Dean’s room and peers in the open door. Dean is sitting on the side of the bed with his back to the door. In the time it took Sam to clean everything Cas had joined Dean, his arm flung over Dean’s shoulder.

Sam spies the dirty shirt, Dean had been wearing during his accident, on the floor right inside the doorway. He silently bends to pick it up, Dean having changed into a fresh one all on his own, or at least with Cas’ help. Sam is unable to prevent himself from eavesdropping.

“Everybody makes mistakes. I still like you, no matter what.”

“Thanks, Cas. You're the bestest friend.”

Sam backs away slowly so he doesn't interrupt their moment and it's then that he realizes Jack isn't with them.

He steps quickly down the hall. “Jack? Jack!” Sam calls, looking for the orneriest of the bunch.

Jack doesn't answer because he's too busy coloring in the book Sam had left out in the Library with a pen.

“Jack, no! We don't color in these books,” Sam chastises. “Do you want to color on plain paper?”

“No, you big fat meanie face.”

Sam rolls his eyes toward the ceiling just as Dean and Cas walk in holding hands.

“Look, Sammy. I asked Cas to be my boyfriend. He said yes.”

“That's not fair! No one asks me,” Jack says stormily. He jumps off the chair and charges at the other boys, shoving Cas hard and smacking Dean.

“Jack,” Sam gasps just as Cas bursts into tears. Jack holds two tight fists at his sides and screeches in anger. Dean lets out a yell and smacks Jack back before Sam can pull them apart.

“Okay, enough, you guys. This is ridiculous. You know better than this,” Sam says desperately. He has no idea what to do with three screaming and crying preschool-aged children.

He wants to just lay down and cry himself. “You guys all just need to go take a damn nap or something.” Sam mentally face-palms himself. Of course. A nap!

“Alright, Dean, help Cas. Jack, come with me. It's beddy-bye time,” Sam says cheerfully.

“Nah, don't wanna!” Jack yells but Sam is stronger than him and scoops him up. Jack never got cleaned up from lunch and he swats at Sam with sticky, stinky hands in a poor effort to get loose.

“Just a quick little nap and maybe later we can,” Sam tries to think of something enticing enough to bribe the energetic child with, “play outside.”

He may regret offering that --taking three of them outside to watch by himself-- but if it means twenty or thirty minutes of quiet time to find a de-aging reversal spell then he'll risk it. To his surprise Jack stops fighting him.

“Okay, Buddy, here's your room.” Sam pats his back and lowers him to the bed.

“But it's scary in here by myself.”

“Jack, you were just in the Library all alone. Were you scared then?”

Jack shakes his head.

“I'll leave the door open and the hall light on. And then we’ll play outside if you're a good boy and take a nap, or rest, for at least thirty minutes. Do you think you can try?”

“But why just me?” he asks with a pout.

“It's not just you. I'm going to put the other boys in their rooms, too. Nap time for everybody.”

Jack lays back on the bed and sighs like taking a nap is a major weight on his shoulders. “Okay, fine.”

Sam turns out the room light. “Stay in bed unless you have to go,” Sam hesitates over the word and finally says, “potty.”

Miraculously Sam gets all three boys into separate rooms in record time but his victory is short-lived as each of them finds excuse after excuse to wander back out to him. It feels like an hour of returning them each to their beds over-and-over again but it's only about ten minutes.

By the time they all stay put Sam is ready to rip out his hair. He takes calming breaths and tries to read past Jack’s pen scribbles for a spell.

That momentary desire, that made Sam believe that it would be fun to allow a man, an angel and a Naphil to remain as cute little kids, has completely vanished. Sam can't wait to have the full-size versions of them back.

 

**+The Next Day+**

 

“So what was it like having a bunch of kids?” Dean asks in amusement. They're alone in the kitchen, Cas and Jack spending time together going over some Enochian lessons in another room.

Sam sighs, holding a mug of coffee under his nose, grateful for the caffeine. “Cas was --dare I say it-- a perfect angel." Dean snorts a little laugh at that. "Jack had a wild streak.”

“Yeah, and what about me? I give you a hard time?”

“You peed. On yourself, on me, on the floor.”

Dean laughs, surprisingly, probably elated that he was stressing Sam out. “Can't blame me,” he says, holding up his hands. “I was just a kid.”

Sam laughs along with him, finding the humor in it now that he looks back at the incident, and pats Dean hard on the back. “Oh, and there was something else." Sam waits for Dean to give him his full attention. "You asked Cas to be your boyfriend.”

Dean goes stock-still and then sputters, trying to find something to say. He finally settles on, “What did he say?” of all things.

“He said yes.” Sam leaves the room but before he vanishes from Dean’s sight he looks back at his big brother to find him smiling softly to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have six kids and my fifth-born is currently four-years-old. And he is a freaking SPITFIRE, much like I portrayed Jack here. My son really does call people 'meanie butt face' (which we do NOT encourage and he's still learning how to speak to people appropriately).
> 
> Jack is the youngest of the three and most immature but he's a GENIUS, easily bored and therefore always getting into stuff to test limits and boundaries. Again, very much like my fifth kiddo.
> 
> Little Dean is pleasant but rebellious; how I imagine he was before Mary died.
> 
> Cas is the quiet and compliant child. My inspiration is from S4 Cas and how he was with Dean; always trying to do his best to earn his trust and favor.
> 
> Each uniquely different and how I'd imagine them being as little ones.
> 
> Preschool-age is a hard time. Most children at this age can talk clearly and concisely but they still, of course, are immature emotionally. A lot of things in this story are very real, lol. Every single time I turn around my preschooler is into something else... ahhhh!
> 
>  
> 
> Dedicated to my friend Emblue_Sparks because her recent stories including Jack inspired me to include little Jack in this fic. <3
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	31. Grins and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We wear the mask that grins and lies,  
> it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,--  
> This debt we pay to human guile;  
> with torn and bleeding hearts we smile  
> ~Paul Laurence Dunbar~
> 
> Dean just got dumped and doesn't feel like attending his office's charity masquerade. He goes anyway, taking his best friend Charlie as his date instead. After she wanders off to find her own fun, Dean is left with an eccentric stranger who looks deep into his soul and helps to expose Dean's deepest desires.
> 
> Promptober word of the day is MASK  
> Rated: Teen+  
> Little bit of internalized homophobia in this one.
> 
> This is the LAST ONE, y'all! Holy moly!

If the Milton’s charity masquerade wasn’t for a good cause, Dean wouldn’t even be here right now. He’d probably be getting shitfaced drunk and trying to find a one-night rebound in an effort to lick his wounds.  
  
But he’s got the mask --the one  _she_ made him pick before the breakup-- and Charlie agreed to go with him instead. So he puts on a black suit, ties his mask over his face and steps into the lavish ballroom.  
  
“Charlie, how long are you wanting to stay tonight?” Dean asks, ready to leave before they’ve even begun. Maybe under different circumstances he’d be excited and having fun. But the bitterness of his recent break-up still lingers.  
  
“Long enough. You’re my Mosby tonight, right? My wing-man, my right-hand man?”  
  
“If you need help flirting with all the ladies then you’ve got the right guy, Barney.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Charlie says, her glittery and gold mask obscuring half of her face as she half-listens. “Ooh, open bar. Onward my steed, onward toward the liquid courage.”  
  
Dean and Charlie head over to the alcohol, strolling past people in modern gowns and smartly cut suits. The colors and flashes of sparkle are blinding under the many chandelier lights hanging above them.  
  
It’s a modern masquerade. Only a few women seem to be wearing 18th century styled gowns but the majority are in low-cut versions or form-fitting 21st century fashion. The masks are a myriad of styles, colors and shapes. Everything from the simple, to the beautiful, to the downright grotesque.  
  
As Dean guides Charlie through the different groups of gathered people, her small arm tucked under his, he can’t help but notice how revealing the masks truly are when they’re supposed to hide the identity beneath.  
  
Zachariah’s mask looks like a melting, geriatric face. Bela is wearing some version of those drama masks; two faces that depict one sad expression and the other happy. Charlie’s mask is shiny and sparkly, with large eye holes so her eyes are clearly visible. She is honest, with a heart of gold, and her mask reflects that.  
  
He lightly touches his plain black mask and wonders what that means for him. Boring? Predictable? A blank slate? He didn’t even pick it out. It was what Lisa wanted because, ‘ _It’s a black-tie affair, Dean. It’s classy._ ’  
  
If he had to have a plain black one then it should have at least been shaped like the bat signal. But no, that one was too childish, according to her. Having had the masks picked out for weeks and having been dumped only a few days ago, Dean didn’t feel like exchanging it.  
  
Dean shakes himself from his thoughts. They are way too deep for tonight. He puts up a hand to get the bartender’s attention, and downs two shots before he turns to face the music. Figuratively speaking. He’s not sure he’s ready for the dance floor quite yet.  
  
“Dean, I spy with my little eye, something that is red. Wish me luck,” Charlie says, taking another sip before handing him her half-empty Mai-Tai. He watches her glide off toward her goal, only turning away once she gives him a thumbs-up behind her back.  
  
So much for being her wing-man. He's useless and unneeded. Dean sighs, looks at her drink and shrugs, slurping it down and abandoning the empty glass on the bar.  
  
“Did you enjoy that?” a deep voice asks to Dean’s left. He turns and finds himself face-to-face… with a face. A full-face mask that looks like a porcelain doll with alabaster skin, rouged cheeks and glossy red lips. He thought a man had spoken to him but the female mask has thrown him off.  
  
Behind the eye holes is dark black makeup, only the whites of eyes and blue irises visible and untelling about this person’s gender. Dean glances down at the red painted fingernails wrapped around a tumbler, but the person is wearing a man's suit even if it is reminiscent of a colorful patchwork quilt. And they definitely sound like a man, their cropped and messy hair styled with rainbow glitter hair-gel.  
  
“No. I mean, yeah, it was okay. I guess,” Dean says.  
  
“You’re not sure?” the man asks, his words thrumming with amusement, his mask unmoving in its expression. It’s kinda creepy.  
  
Dean shrugs, prepared to move away from the eccentric man, except that what he says next stops Dean and grabs his interest like a shark scenting blood in the water. It’s instinctive, it’s dangerous. Dean feels a shiver, similar to what he felt that one time he went to a fortune teller as a prank.  
  
Her name was Pamela Barnes and Dean felt like she could see straight through the bullshit and directly to his soul, naming things he'd never want to see the light of day if he valued his reputation, which he does. It is exactly how he feels now as blue eyes peer out of the mask before him.  
  
“I am fairly good at reading people’s masks.” The man puts his tumbler down, his red nails distracting Dean’s eye. “Are you always so indecisive? Do you know what you like or were you trying to gauge if I would judge you for appreciating what is considered a feminine drink?”  
  
The questions catch Dean off-guard in their quiet but quick fire. “I… don’t know. How do you mean?”  
  
“Out of all the masks in the world, out of all the colors and expression, you are wearing plain black. Is it because you are indecisive?”  
  
Dean puffs out his chest a little. “Actually, no. My girlfriend picked it out because she hated the one I chose.”  
  
The expression on the other man is unchanging, his mask a pleasant, smiling doll. He says nothing, letting Dean’s words hang in the air as a waltz score plays from the live orchestra across the oversized room.  
  
“Do you often let people tell you who you are or what you should be?”  
  
Dean is growing irritable. A stranger is basically calling him a pushover. “Look, man, I don’t know what your deal is with your girly mask so why don’t we talk about that instead, huh?”  
  
More amusement drips from the man’s sultry voice. “Deflection, interesting. Let me ask you two questions and then I will be happy to discuss my mask with you.”  
  
“Uh, alright,” Dean says, his curiosity piqued.   
  
“First question: if your girlfriend--”  
  
“Ex-girlfriend,” Dean blurts out and he isn’t entirely sure why, nor does he recall moving closer to the other man. He must have done it subconsciously in order to hear his deep baritone better. Yeah, that was it. Dean leans in closer.  
  
“Alright. If your  _ex_ - _girlfriend_  hadn’t convinced you to wear this plain mask then what would you have chosen?”  
  
“Easy. A batman mask. Still black but it’s fucking Batman.” Dean grins, his current mask only framing his eyes and leaving his mouth exposed. Back when they bought it he told himself it would be easier to eat and drink in, as consolation.  
  
“Batman, huh. Very interesting.”  
  
“Yeah? Why’s that?" Dean can't help the flirting note when he asks in a deeper tone, "Does that make me seem mysterious?”  
  
The porcelain mask tilts to the side as the man cocks his head, his eyes squinting a little out from the black depths. “The mask you are wearing now portrays what everyone else wishes you to be. Your true self is suppressed and suffocated, denied.   
  
"But your preferred mask would reveal that you hide behind power and hyper-masculinity. Beneath his bat mask Bruce Wayne was a broken man with a difficult childhood, a past full of demons and horrors. But he had a good heart and was loyal to the ones he cares about. Mysterious? Definitely. The bat mask would have revealed more interesting things about the real you."  
  
Dean can’t see the man’s expression but he swears he can hear a smile at least. He is unsure if that means the man is impressed by his mask choice or if he’s making fun. Then again, Dean isn’t the one in a frou-frou mask that is painted to look like a woman.   
  
He is still trying to process whether or not he's being judged when the man speaks again. “My second question is,” the man says as he straightens his spine and holds out a hand, “will you dance with me?”  
  
Dean wasn’t expecting that and he looks down at the smooth, long fingers and the soft palm. Is Dean interested? Hell yes. But they’re in public and he’s a dude. He looks around until he locates Charlie. She is dancing with another woman and laughing. Unburdened, honest and true, free to be herself…  
  
He looks back down and slowly places his palm against the other man’s hand. At first touch there's an explosion of nerves, as if a hundred cocoons have just burst open and released their imprisoned butterflies to beat their wings against his insides.  
  
He lets himself be led toward the area sectioned off for dancing, watching the confident stride of the man before him. Dean purposefully ignores the stares and whispers as they pass through the throngs of people.  
  
When the man has reached a place on the floor that he is pleased with he turns and pulls Dean close to him. Dean isn't sure he remembers how to breathe, and he definitely isn’t sure where to put his hands or where to step, but a deep chuckle rumbles in the other man’s chest.  
  
The masked man takes Dean’s hands and encourages Dean to wrap them around his waist. Dean licks his lips and watches red nails trail up the sleeves of his black suit jacket until the other man’s hands come to rest at Dean’s shoulder blades.  
  
He’s pulled in another step and Dean’s heart isn’t the calm and steady pace it had been when he first arrived. He feels like he’s drowning, panicked and breathy. He’s never danced with another man before and he can’t even dare look away from the mask at anyone around them.  
  
Voice hoarse with his conflicting emotions, Dean asks, “So tell me about your mask.”  
  
“I chose this one,” the man begins to explain, “because a person's appearance is only one small part of one’s identity. Male or female, straight or gay, young or old - does it matter? I am who I am regardless of the face under my mask. You chose to dance with me even though I may look strange on the outside.”  
  
“Well, yeah. I guess I think you're interesting.”  
  
“Hmm, yes," he agrees. "But you also took the first step, maybe in a long time, in doing something you wanted. You may lie and tell people you don’t like a ‘girly’ alcoholic beverage in one breath but then change your mind in the next because, at the heart of it, you do like the things you say that you don’t. You want to please everyone even if it means denying yourself.”  
  
Dean is stunned and finally looks around at the people dancing around them. No one seems to care that two men are slow dancing. A few people even catch Dean’s eye and smile before turning their attentions elsewhere.  
  
He takes a deep breath. “That is some deep philosophical shit. Or psychological. Whatever.” Dean realizes how stiff and uncomfortable he’s been and he relaxes into their rhythmic sway, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation of another man's body against his own.  
  
As they dance, they find common ground, they laugh, they talk about their families and lives. Every morsel of information that Dean is fed from the man makes him hungry for more. Even as the music tempos ebb and flow, they move off to the side, in their own world, still swaying and talking at their own pace, Dean massaging his hands into the other man’s back, trying to get close and bring him closer.  
  
It isn’t just the physical contact that Dean is soaking up like a touch-starved orphan, which he supposes might be an apt description for him. It is that Dean is opening up to someone more profoundly than anyone else that he knows, even those he has known for years. There’s a safety in talking to a mask, he supposes.   
  
But Dean still a little unnerved by the unchanging expression of the man’s prettily painted mask. “So, am I ever gonna know your name or see your face?”  
  
The man stops dancing and steps back, each of their arms falling to their sides. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

Before Dean can protest that he doesn’t mean right here or right now --because, holy shit, he's nervous-- the man slips the mask up and off his face.

His skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat from being beneath the mask and he’s got a thick band of black eyeshadow smudged over his eyes… but he’s the most beautiful person Dean has ever laid his eyes on. And very familiar...  
  
“Hi. I’m Cas. It’s nice to finally meet you, Dean.”  
  
He recognizes Cas as the quiet IT guy who floats between offices in the building where Dean works. Dean has always found him attractive but, like most men Dean likes, he had avoided Cas like the plague. Enjoying a good-looking man from afar is safe. Dancing in his arms and enjoying the feel of his body, while delving into the depths of his deepest fears and desires, is dangerous.  
  
Dangerous for his reputation because a taste, like tonight, would tip him over the edge and into ‘ _what Dean really wants_ ’ territory and he'd never look back.

Which only proves Cas’ point earlier: that Dean hides behind a mask of someone else’s choosing, looking and playing a part that they've chosen for him.

If Dean hadn’t gotten to know Cas first, he might not have ever gotten to know him at all. Dean instantly feels regret for denying himself because Cas is absolutely amazing, inside and out. Dean pulls off his own mask and stuffs it in his back pocket to toss in the trash later.  
  
“Well, Cas, I’m glad I got to meet you, too. I’m just sorry it took wearing a mask to get me to talk to you. I’d love it if we could continue this,” Dean gestures between them, “after tonight. And not because you’re pretty, but because I liked getting to know the real you.”  
  
“You think I’m pretty?” Cas asks, laughing when Dean ducks his head bashfully. Cas pulls Dean back into a dance. “I’d love to continue this, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little backstory on Cas' side of this because I went over my word count. In this 'verse, if I continued this or re-wrote it to include Cas' POV:
> 
> Cas has a major crush on Dean. He's highly intelligent and extremely perceptive. And because he's the quiet guy who gets into offices and overhears a lot, he learns a lot about everyone in the building. Little by little he finds himself more drawn to Dean. He also learns of his break-up, because, who hasn't?!
> 
> Cas doesn't really want to go to the masquerade that the office is throwing but he does and when he finds Dean is there with the Charlie Bradbury, whom everyone knows is gay, and is essentially date-less. Cas sees it as an opportunity to try and get to know Dean behind the safety of his own mask. He doesn't actually think it'll work but imagine how nervous and excited Cas would feel to have his crush give him undivided attention, to touch him, to open up to him and.... LIKE HIM BACK.
> 
> Ahhhh. I love it. Of course Cas is good at stoicism and hiding his emotions, perceived as confident by Dean, but inside Cas is just quaking.
> 
> I'd also love to have more Charlie than we got and I'd totally have Lisa attend this ball.
> 
> Or I could easily turn into a creepy stalker/Stockholm story because I kinda have a kink for those types of stories. *shrug* I don't know WHY, I just know that I do.
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Stay safe.
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~

**Author's Note:**

> I do hope you enjoyed most or all of these short drabbles. Many of them are going to be made into longer fics as soon as I finish up my commitments to other projects. 
> 
> If you want to be notified of any specific story being developed further please click on TheTwistedWillow to go to my profile and SUBSCRIBE. You may also leave me a comment with whatever specific story you want notification about and I will reply to your comment with a link once that story is completed and published.
> 
> I appreciate all my readers, the Kudos and comments. I try to respond to every comment so don't be shy. 
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


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